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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 

BEQUEST  OF 


I 


THE   HAPPY   WARRIOR 


By  a.  S.  M.  HUTCHINSON 


The  Hak»y  Wabmob 
Once  A3oard  the  Lugger  — 
The  Clean  Heart 
If  Winter  Comes 


THE    HAPPY 
WA  R  R I O  R 


v^  BY 

aT  S.  M.  HUTCHINSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "ONCE  ABOARD  THE  LUGGER  


WITH   FRONTISPIECE   BY 

PAUL  JULIEN  MEYLAN 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,   BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 

1922 


,60 

U  ?3  <-'■ 


Copyright,  igi2. 
By  a.   S.   M.   Hutchinson. 


All  rights  reserved 


FEINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OP    AMERICA 


Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?     Who  is  he 
That  every  man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be? 
—  It  is  the  generous  spirit,  who,  .  .  . 
Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need  .  .  . 
Who,  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not  — 
Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won: 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay. 
Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray. 

—  Wordsworth. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE 

A    NICE,     SHORT    BOOK,     ILLUSTRATING     THE 
ELEMENTS   OF  CHANCE 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  A  Page  of  the  Peerage 3 

II.  A  Change  in  the  Peerage 11 

III.  Into  the  Peerage 15 

IV.  A  Foretaste  of  the  Peerage 26 

V.  Misreading  a  Peeress 41 

VI.    Miscalculating  a  Peer 51 

BOOK   TWO 

A    BOOK  OF    THE    SAME   SIZE,    ILLUSTRATING 
THE  ELEMENT  OF  FOLLY 

I.  Love  trims  Wreckers'  Lamps 61 

II.  Love  leads  an  Expedition  into  the  Unforeseen      .  73 

III.  A  Lovers'  Litany 82 

IV.  What  the  Tooo-firty  Winner  brought  Mrs.  Erps  .  88 
V.  What  Audrey  brought  Lady  Burdon          ...  99 

VI.     Arrival  of  the  Happy  Warrior 107 

VII.    Enlistment  of  the  Happy  Warrior     ....    112 

BOOK  THREE 

BOOK    OF    THE    HAPPY,    HAPPY    TIME.       THE 
ELEMENT  OF    YOUTH 

I.    Percival  has  a  Peep  at  the  'Normous        .        .        .    117 
II.     Follows  a  Frog  and  finds  a  Tadpole        .        .        .     135 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGB 


III.  Lady  Burdon  comes  to  "Post  Offic"       .        .        .144 

IV.  Little  'Orses  and  Little  Stu-pids     ....  152 
V.    The  World  as  Showman  :   All  the  Jolly  Fun        .  168 

VI.    Japhra  and  Ima  and  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red     .  190 

VII.     Burdon  House  Leased:  The  Old  Manor  Occupied  204 

BOOK   FOUR 

BOOK  OF  STORMS  AND    OF  THREATENING 
STORM.       THE  ELEMENT  OF  LOVE 

I.     Plans  and  Dreams  and  Promises        ....  217 

II.  Fears  and  Visions  and  Discoveries    ....  225 

III.  A  Friend  Unchanged  —  and  a  Friend  Grown          .  234 

IV.  Ima's  Lessons 241 

V.    Japhra's  Lessons 246 

VI.    With  Ima  on  Plowman's  Ridge 255 

VII.     Alone  on  Plowman's  Ridge 262 

VIII.    With  Dora  in  the  Drive 268 

IX.     With  Aunt  Maggie  in  Farewell        ....  282 

X.    With  Egbert  in  Freedom     ......  290 

XI.     With  Japhra  on  the  Road 296 

XII.     Letters  of  Recall 304 

XIII.  Mr.  Amber  does  not  Recognise 311 

XIV.  Dora  Remembers 316 

BOOK   FIVE 

BOOK    OF  FIGHTS   AND    OF    THE   BIG    FIGHT. 
THE  ELEMENT  OF  COURAGE 

I.     Boss  Maddox  shows  his  Hand 327 

II.     Ima  shows  her  Heart  .......  336 

III.  Percival  shows  his  Fists 345 

IV.  Foxy  Pinsent  v.  Japhra's  Gentleman         .        .        .  351 


CONTENTS  ix 

CHAPTER  PACK 

V.    A  Fight  that  is  Told 359 

VI.    The  Sticks  come  Out  —  and  a  Knife        .        .        .  370 

VII.    Japhra  and  Ima.    Japhra  and  Aunt  Maggie    .        .  378 
VIII.     A   Cold   'Un    for   Egbert   Hunt.    Rough   'Uns   for 

Percival 386 

IX.     One  comes  over  the  Ridge 395 

X.    Two  ride  Together 405 

XI.    News  of  Hunt.    News  of  Rollo.    News  of  Dora  .  417 

XII.     Prelude  to  the  Big  Fight 424 

XIII.  The  Big  Fight  Opens 433 

XIV.  Always  Victory 441 


BOOK   ONE 

A  NICE,   SHORT  BOOK,   ILLUSTRATING   THE 
ELEMENTS  OF   CHANCE 


THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


BOOK   ONE 

A  NICE,  SHORT   BOOK,  ILLUSTRATING   THE 
ELEMENTS   OF   CHANCE 


CHAPTER  I 

A  PAGE   OF   THE   PEERAGE 


This  life  we  stumble  through,  or  strut  through,  or 
through  which  we  creep  and  whine,  or  through  which 
we  dance  and  whistle,  is  built  upon  hazard  —  and  that 
is  why  it  is  such  a  very  wobbhng  affair,  made  up  of  tricks 
and  chances;  hence  its  miseries,  but  hence  also  its 
spice ;  hence  its  tragedies,  and  hence  also  its  romance. 
A  dog  I  know  —  illustrating  the  point  —  passed  from 
its  gate  into  the  village  street  one  morning,  and  merely 
to  ease  the  itch  of  a  momentary  fit  of  temper,  or  merely 
to  indulge  a  prankish  whim,  put  a  firm  bite  into  a  plump 
leg.  Mark,  now,  the  hazard  foundation  of  this  chancey 
Hfe.  A  dozen  commonplace  legs  were  offered  the  dog; 
it  might  have  tasted  the  lot  and  procured  no  more 
pother  than  the  passing  of  a  few  shillings,  the  solatium 
of  a  pair  of  trousers  or  so.  One  leg  was  as  good  as 
another  to  the  dog;  yet  it  chanced  upon  the  vicar's 
(whose  back  was  turned),  enjoyed  its  bite,  jerked  from 
the  devout  but  startled  man  an  amazingly  coarse  expres- 

3 


4  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

sion,  and  hence  arose  alarums  and  excursions,  a  village 
set  by  the  ears,  family  feuds,  a  budding  betrothal  crushed 
by  parental  strife  (one  party  owning  the  dog  and  the 
other  calling  the  vicar  Father)  and  the  genesis  of  a  dead 
set  against  the  vicar's  curate  (who  hit  at  the  dog  and 
struck  the  priest)  that  ended  in  the  unfortunate  young 
man  having  to  leave  the  village. 

But  all  that  is  by  the  way,  and  is  only  offered  to  your 
notice  because  commonplace  examples  are  usually  the 
most  striking  illustrations.  It  is  introduced  to  excuse 
the  starting  of  this  story  with  its  least  and  worst  char- 
acter. He  figures  but  occasionally  on  these  pages ; 
yet  by  this  chance  and  by  that  he  comes  to  play  a  vital 
part  as  the  story  draws  to  an  end ;  he  comes,  in  fact, 
to  close  it :  and  therefore,  out  of  his  place,  he  shall  be 
the  first  to  occupy  your  attention. 

Egbert  Hunt  his  name. 

II 

Miller's  Field,  Hertfordshire,  an  outer  suburb  of 
London  and  within  the  cockney  twang,  was  put  into  a 
proper  commotion  by  the  news  that  had  brought  a 
title  into  its  midst  —  had  left  a  peerage  as  casually  as 
the  morning  milk  at  its  desirable  residence  "Hillside," 
where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Letham  (Lord  and  Lady  Burdon 
as  suddenly  and  completely  as  Monday  becomes  Tues- 
day) made  their  home.  The  commotion  chattered  and 
clacked  in  every  household  and  in  every  chance  meet- 
ing in  the  streets ;  but  it  swirled  most  violently  about 
Hillside  and  in  Hillside,  and  its  brunt  —  if  his  own 
statement  may  be  accepted  —  pressed  most  heavily 
upon  Egbert  Hunt. 

Egbert,  morose,  a  pallid  and  stoutish  boy  of  fourteen 


A  PAGE   OF   THE   PEER.\GE  5 

years,  constituted  the  male  staff  at  Hillside.  This  boy 
toiled  sullenly  at  a  diversity  of  tasks,  knives,  boots, 
coals,  windows :  any  soul-corroding  duties  of  such  char- 
acter, throughout  the  earlier  hours  of  the  day.  In  the 
afternoon  he  fitted  himself  into  a  tight  page-boy's  suit 
that  had  been  procured  through  the  advertisement  col- 
umns of  the  "  Lady,"  and  that,  on  the  very  day  of  its 
arrival,  had  been  shorn  of  much  of  the  glory  it  first  pos- 
sessed in  Egbert's  eyes. 

Sunning  himself  proudly  down  the  village  street,  the 
lad  had  been  greeted  with  a  howl  of  "Marbles  !"  by  the 
ribald  companions  he  thought  to  impress. 

"Marbles!  They're  buttons,  yer  silly  toads!"  the 
indignant  Egbert  had  cried. 

"Wot  O  !  Marbles  ! "  they  jeered,  and  two  of  the  round 
silver  buttons  were  wrenched  off  in  the  distressing  affair 
that  followed. 

Egbert  carried  them  home  in  his  pocket.  The  inci- 
dent augmented  the  hostile  and  suspicious  air  with  which, 
from  his  childhood  upwards,  he  regarded  the  world. 
For  this  attitude  the  accident  attending  his  birth  was 
primarily  responsible.  When  he  presented  this  morose 
disposition  to  his  mother's  friends,  Mrs.  Hunt,  in  her 
softer  moods,  would  instruct  them  that  his  sourness  — 
as  she  termed  it  —  was  due  to  the  sudden  and  unex- 
pected discharge  of  a  cannon  during  her  visit  to  a 
circus,  when  Egbert  was  but  eight  months  on  the  foad 
to  this  vale  of  tears.  The  cannon  had  hastened  his 
arrival  (she  never  knew,  so  she  said,  how  she  managed 
to  get  home)  and  the  abruptness,  she  was  convinced, 
was  responsible  for  his  glum  demeanor.  By  a  dark 
process  of  reasoning,  wherein  were  combined  retribu- 
tion to  the  clown  who  had  fired  the  cannon  and  recom- 
pense to  the  child  it  had  unduly  impelled  into  the  world. 


6  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

she  had  named  the  boy  Egbert,  this  being  the  title  by 
which  the  clown  was  announced  on  the  circus  pro- 
gramme. 

The  story  became  a  popular  joke  against  the  lad ;  to 
shout  "Bang!"  at  Egbert  from  behind  concealment 
became  a  favourite  sport  of  his  grosser  companions. 
It  rankled  him  sorely.  For  one  so  young  he  was  un- 
naturally embittered ;  his  digestion,  moreover,  was 
defective. 

Ill 

Upon  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  his  employers, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Letham,  had  been  miraculously  elevated 
to  the  style  and  title  of  Lord  and  Lady  Burdon,  Egbert's 
hostility  towards  the  world  was  at  its  height.  From 
half-past  three  onwards,  callers  followed  one  another, 
or  passed  one  another,  over  the  Hillside  threshold.  Eg- 
bert was  bone-tired.  It  was  close  upon  seven  when 
kindly  Mrs.  Archer,  the  doctor's  wife,  addressing  him  as 
he  showed  her  out,  inquired  in  her  gentle  way  after  his 
mother  and  passed  down  the  path  with  a  ''Well,  good 
night,  Egbert !" 

''Good  night,  mum,"  Egbert  muttered.  He  added 
in  a  lower  but  more  devout  key,  "An'  I  yope  ter  Gawd 
yer  the  last  of  um." 

The  cool  air  invited  him  to  the  gate  and  he  leaned 
wearily  over  it,  his  bitterness  of  spirit  increased  by  a 
boy  who,  sp3ang  him,  cried,  "Bang!"  as  he  passed, 
"Bang!"  in  retort  to  Egbert's  tongue  thrust  out  in 
hatred  and  contempt  across  the  gate,  and  "Bang  !  bang  !" 
again,  as  the  gathering  evening  took  him  in  her  trailing 
cloak. 

Egbert  drew  in  his  tongue  with  a  groan  of  misery  and 


A  PAGE   OF   THE  PEERAGE  7 

hate,  of  indigestion  and  of  weariness.  An  approach- 
ing footstep  along  the  road  caused  him  to  thrust  it  out 
again  and  to  keep  it  extended,  armed  lest  the  newcomer 
should  be  one  of  the  bangers  who  irked  his  young  life. 

It  chanced  to  be  his  father,  returning  from  work  in 
the  fields.  Mr.  Hunt  paused  opposite  his  son  and  gazed 
for  a  few  moments  at  the  outstretched  tongue.  At  some 
pain  to  himself  Egbert  pressed  it  to  further  extension : 
the  boy  was  a  Httle  short-sighted  and  in  the  gloom  did 
not  recognise  his  parent. 

''Tongue  sore?"  Mr.  Hunt  inquired,  after  a  space. 

Recognising  the  voice,  Egbert  restored  the  member  to 
his  mouth. 

"Comes  of  telUn'  a  lie,  so  I've  'card,"  said  Mr.  Hunt. 

Considerable  sympathy  was  in  his  tone ;  but  Egbert 
gave  no  more  attention  to  this  view  of  retributive  jus- 
tice than  he  had  vouchsafed  to  the  question  preceding 
it. 

Father  and  son  —  neither  greatly  given  to  words  when 
together  —  continued  to  regard  each  other  solemnly 
across  the  gate.  Presently  Egbert  jerked  his  head  back 
at  the  house.    "Heard  about  it?"  he  inquired. 

The  news  had  long  since  permeated  the  village.  Mr. 
Hunt  said,  "Ah!"  and  taking  a  step  forward,  gazed 
earnestly  at  the  house,  first  on  one  side  of  Egbert's 
head  and  then  on  the  other.  His  air  was  that  of  a  man 
who,  the  inmates  suddenly  having  reached  the  peerage, 
rather  expected  to  see  a  coronet  suspended  from  the 
roof  or  a  scarlet  robe  fluttering  from  a  window ;  and  as 
he  stepped  back  he  said,  "Ah  !"  again,  in  a  tone  that 
committed  him,  as  a  result  of  his  observations,  neither 
to  complete  surprise  nor  complete  satisfaction. 

"Ah  !"  said  Mr.  Hunt,  and  shifted  the  spade  he  car- 
ried from  his  left  hand  to  his  right  and  waited. 


8  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Coin'  to  take  me  with  'em  when  they  move  to  the 
'Ouse  o'  Lords,"  Egbert  announced.  "Told  me  so, 
dinner  time." 

Mr.  Hunt  put  the  spade  before  him,  and  leaning  on 
it  gazed  profoundly  at  his  son.  "Ah  !  You'll  wear  one 
of  them  wing  things  side  of  yer  'at,  that's  what  you'll 
wear,"  he  informed  him.     "Tall 'at." 

"Cockatoos  they  call  um,  don't  they?"  Egbert  in- 
quired. 

"That's  right.  Side  of  yer  'at,"  his  father  repHed. 
"TaU  'at." 

Egbert  appeared  to  ponder  gloomily  on  the  prospect. 
It  was  the  habit  of  this  boy's  sombre  mind  to  suspect  a 
hidden  indignity  in  each  change  thrust  into  his  Hfe. 
Seeking  it  in  the  cockatoos,  he  presently  found  it. 

"Make  me  a  Guy-forx  again,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
"Same  as  these  'ere  buttons." 

Mr.  Hunt  took  a  step  forward,  and  peering  over  the 
gate  gazed  down  at  his  son's  buttons  with  considerable 
concern. 

The  inspection  finished,  "Different  in  the  'Ouse  o' 
Lords,"  he  consoled.  "Expec'  they'll  all  wear  them 
wing  things  side  of  their  'ats  there.  Call  'em  same  as 
they  call  you,  that's  what  you  can  do.     Tall  'ats." 

But  this  boy's  pessimism  was  incurable.  "I'U  have 
the  biggest,  you'll  find,"  Egbert  responded.  "Else 
they'll  give  me  two  an'  make  a  Guy-forx  of  me  that 
way." 

Mr.  Hunt  mentally  visualised  cockades  the  size  of 
albatross  wings  on  each  side  of  his  son's  hat.  The  pic- 
ture made  him  unable  to  deny  the  slightly  outre  effect 
that  would  be  produced,  and  he  began  to  move  away. 

"Comin'  in  to  see  your  mother  to-night,  I  suppose?" 
he  asked. 


A  PAGE  OF  THE  PEERAGE  9 

Egbert  grunted. 

"Tongue  still  sore?" 

"BoilinV'  said  Egbert,  and  turning  from  the  gate 
moved  moodily  towards  the  house. 

At  nine  o'clock,  following  his  usual  Tuesday  night 
privilege,  he  betook  himself  down  the  village  street  to 
his  parents'  cottage.  A  further  word  or  two  dropped 
by  his  mistress  joined  with  kitchen  gossip  during  sup- 
per to  enable  him  to  supply  something  of  the  informa- 
tion for  which  he  found  his  mother  impatiently  waiting. 

"So  you're  goin'  with  'em,  I  hear?"  she  greeted 
him. 

Egbert  nodded. 

"Think  you  was  goin'  to  prising,  'stead  of  to  a  lord's 
castle,  one  would,  judgin'  by  your  face,"  Mrs.  Hunt 
exclaimed. 

"  Goin'  to  wear  one  o'  them  wing  things  side  of  his 
'at,  that's  what  he's  goin'  to  wear,"  announced  her  hus- 
band.    "Tall  'at." 

"An'  oughter  be  proud,"  cried  Mrs.  Hunt.  "Hold 
yer  yed  up.  Sulky,  do  !" 

Sulky  gave  a  stiff  jerk  to  his  bullet  head.  "Not  goin* 
to  the  'Ouse  o'  Lords,  after  all,"  he  answered  his  father. 

"'Ouse  o' Lords  !  'Ouse  o'  nonsense!"  Mrs.  Hunt 
exclaimed.  "  Goin'  to  live  in  a  castle,  that's  where  you're 
goin'  to  live,  young  man.  Down  in  Wiltsheer ;  the 
cook  told  me  all  about  it  when  I  popped  round  this 
afternoon." 

"Goin'  to  wear  one  o'  them  wing  things  side  of  'is 
'at,  that's  what  he's  goin'  to  wear,"  pronounced  Mr. 
Hunt  doggedly.  "Tall  'at.  Tall  'at,"  he  reaffirmed; 
but  "In  a  castle!"  Mrs.  Hunt  continued,  heedless  of 
the  interruption.  "Burdon  Old  Manor,  they  call  it, 
at  a  place  called  Little  Letham,  which  Letham  is  the 


10  THE  HAPPY   WARRIOR 

family  name  of  the  family,  they  giving  their  name  to 
it  as  is  very  often  the  case,  and  a  proper  castle  it  is,  too, 
though  called  a  Manor." 

Mrs.  Hunt  foamed  out  this  information  with  a  heat 
that  increased  as  she  perceived  the  morose  indifference 
with  which  Egbert  accepted  it.  Throwing  herself 
into  the  third  person,  "Don't  you  'ear  what  your 
mother  is  a  telling  of  you,  Sulk?"  she  demanded.  Her 
eye  caught  on  the  wall  behind  Sulk's  head  a  coloured 
presentation  calendar  depicting  Lambert  Simnel  at 
scullion's  work  in  an  enormous  kitchen,  and  she  took 
inspiration.  ''A  proper  castle,  your  mother's  telhng 
you,  where  you'll  have  scuUings  in  the  kitchen;  that's 
what  you'll  'ave,  you  nasty  sulk,  you !  Can't  you  say 
something?" 

"I'll  sculling  'em!"  breathed  Egbert,  yielding  to  her 
request.  He  scented  in  this  new  form  of  acquaintance 
some  fresh  trial  and  indignity.  "I'll  sculling  'em  !"  he 
repeated. 

His  fierce  intention  earned  him  at  once,  and  earned 
him  full,  the  thump  upon  his  head  that  his  mother's 
excitement  and  his  own  gloom  had  been  conspiring  to 
inflict  ever  since  he  entered  the  cottage ;  and  he  trudged 
his  way  back  to  Hillside  viciously  embittered  against 
every  point  of  an  aching  day :  his  mistress,  her  visitors, 
the  approaching  change  in  his  hfe,  his  mother,  the  "  scul- 
lings."  "Tyrangs  !"  said  Egbert.  He  stumbled  over  a 
stone  as  he  pronounced  the  savage  word  and  bit  his 
tongue  most  painfully.  "Boil  yer,"  said  Egbert  to 
the  stone;  and,  including  the  stone  %vith  the  "tyrangs," 
as  wearily  he  got  him  to  bed,  "Boil  um!"  he  said. 
"Tyrangs!    Toads!" 


CHAPTER  II 

A  CHANGE  IN  THE  PEERAGE 

This  hazard  foundation  of  life  !  As  a  stone  tossed 
down  a  hillside  dislodges  others  and  sets  them  rolling, 
themselves  dislodging  more  till  the  first  Kght  pitch  will 
gather  to  a  rumble  where  was  peace,  the  first  stone 
cause  to  jump  and  shout  many  score  that  might  have 
held  their  place  long  after  the  thrower's  idle  hand 
was  equal  dust  with  the  dust  of  their  descent  —  so  it 
is  with  the  Hghtest  action  that  the  least  of  us  may  idly 
toss  upon  our  small  affairs.  We  cannot  move  alone. 
Life  has  us  in  a  web,  within  whose  meshes  none  may 
stir  a  hand  but  he  pulls  here,  loosens  there,  and  sets  a 
wave  of  movement  through  a  hundred  tangles  of  the 
coil. 

This  hazard  foundiition  of  Kfe  !  Egbert  Hunt  was 
made  to  lean  wearily  over  the  gate  that  evening  and  the 
toads  and  "tyrangs"  whose  oppression  had  cost  him  a 
bitter  day  were  set  in  his  path  by  a  movement  in  the 
web,  leagues  upon  leagues  of  land  and  sea  from  Miller's 
Field.  Life  has  us  in  a  web.  In  one  remote  corner  an 
Afridi  tribesman  shot  a  British  officer :  that  was  his 
movement  in  the  meshes,  and  swift,  swift,  the  chain 
of  tugs  set  up  thereby  acted  upon  a  morose  page-boy 
in  another  remote  corner,  rendering  him  bone-tired 
through  ushering  the  visitors  come  to  congratulate  those 
who  had  stepped  into  the  dead  man's  shoes. 

II 


12  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

This  hazard  touch  even  in  the  billet  that  the  Afridi 
tribesman  selected  for  his  bullet !  In  sheeting  rain, 
behind  a  rock  above  a  pass  on  the  northwestern  frontier 
of  India,  Multan  Khan  —  Afridi,  one-time  sepoy,  de- 
serter from  his  regiment,  scoundrel,  first-class  shot  — 
snuggled  his  cheek  against  his  stolen  rifle,  hesitated  for 
a  moment  between  the  heads  of  three  British  officers, 
drew  a  line  on  one,  pressed  the  trigger;  and,  while  he 
chuckled  over  his  success,  himself  pitched  dead  with  a 
bullet  through  the  incautious  skull  he  had  craned  over 
the  rock  the  better  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  his  skill. 

Brief  his  pleasure  but  lusty  the  tug  he  had  given  the 
web.  The  news  of  it  reached  London  just  in  time  to 
catch  the  final  edition  of  the  evening  papers  as  they 
went  to  press,  just  in  time  to  supply  a  good  contents- 
bill  for  an  uncommonly  dull  night. 

PEER 

KILLED   IN 

FRONTIER 

FIGHTING 

went  flaming  down  the  streets,  substantiated  in  the 
news  columns  by  a  brief  message  announcing  Lord 
Burdon's  name  among  the  casualties  of  a  brisk  little 
engagement  in  the  Frontier  Campaign. 

The  morning  papers  did  better  with  it,  particularly 
that  which  Egbert  Hunt  took  in  from  the  doorstep  of 
Hillside.  This  paper's  "Own  Correspondent"  with  the 
British  force,  eluding  vigilance,  had  enjoyed  the  fortune 
of  getting  among  the  party  detailed  for  clearing  the 
rocks  whence  Multan  Khan  and  his  friends  had  made 
themselves  surprisingly  unpleasant;    and   his  long  de- 


A  CHANGE  IN   THE   PEERAGE  13 

spatch,  well  handled  in  Fleet  Street,  bravely  headlined 
above : 

Gallant  Young  Peer 

Lord  Burdon  Killed  in  Sharp  Frontier  Engagement 

Leads  Dashing  Charge 

and  nicely  rounded  off  below  with  a  paragraph  written 
up  from  "cuttings  about  Lord  Burdon"  in  the  news- 
paper's library,  was  distributed  far  and  wide  on  the 
morrow.  The  journalists  dished  it  up,  the  presses  ham- 
mered it  out,  the  carts,  the  trains,  and  the  boys  galloped 
it  broadcast  over  the  country.  To  some  it  fetched 
tragedy  (as  we  shall  see) ;  to  others  idle  interest ;  to 
Egbert  Hunt  a  bone-aching  day  and  cruel  indignities 
(as  have  been  shown) ;  to  Mrs.  Letham  bewildering 
excitement. 


CHAPTER  in 


INTO  THE  PEERAGE 


It  made  Mrs.  Letham  very  excited.  Mrs.  Letham^ 
coming  upon  it  as  she  idly  turned  over  the  newspaper  at 
her  breakfast,  took  a  bang  at  the  heart  that  for  the  mo- 
ment made  the  print  difficult  to  read.  Recovering,  she 
read  it  through,  her  pulses  drumming,  her  breath  catch- 
ing, her  hands  shaking  so  that  the  paper  rustled  a  little 
between  them.  She  half  rose  from  her  seat,  then  read 
again.  She  read  a  third  time  and  now  pursued  the  lines 
to  that  subjoined  paragraph  written  up  from  the  "cut- 
tings about  Lord  Burdon." 

"Lord  Burdon,  the  twelfth  Baron,  was  attached  to 
the  staff  of  General  Sir  Wryford  Sheringham,  command- 
ing the  expeditionary  force.  He  was  a  lieutenant  in 
the  30th  Hussars  and  left  England  in  October  last  with 
General  Sheringham  w^hen  the  latter  went  out  to  take 
command.  Lord  Burdon,  who  only  attained  his  ma- 
jority in  April  last,  was  unmarried.  This  is  the  first 
time  since  the  creation  of  the  Barony  in  1660  that  the 
title  has  not  passed  directly  from  holder  to  eldest  son; 
and  about  Little  Letham,  Wilts,  where  is  Burdoi.  Old 
Manor,  the  family  seat,  the  expressions  "Safe  as  a  Burdon 
till  he's  got  his  heir,"  and  "Safe  as  a  Burdon  heir"  have 
passed  into  the  common  parlance  of  the  countryside. 

14 


INTO   THE    PEERAGE  15 

The  successor  is  of  a  very  remote  branch  —  Mr.  Maurice 
Redpath  Letham,  whose  paternal  great-grandfather  was 
the  eighth  baron.  It  will  be  noticed  as  a  most  singular 
event  that  the  first  break  in  a  direct  succession  extending 
over  two  hundred  years  should  cause  the  new  heir  to 
be  found  in  the  line  of  no  fewer  than  four  generations 
ago  of  his  house." 

When  Mrs.  Letham  presently  arose,  she  arose  sud- 
denly as  if  she  forced  herself  to  move  against  spells  that 
numbed  her  movements.  She  arose,  the  paper  clutched 
between  her  hands,  and  for  a  space  she  stood  with  a 
dizzy  air,  as  if  her  thoughts  reeled  in  a  giddy  maze  and 
perplexed  her  actions.  A  jostle  of  visions  —  half  caught, 
bewildering  glimpses  of  what  this  thing  meant  to  her  — 
spun  through  her  brain,  the  mind  shaping  them  quicker 
than  the  mental  eye  could  distinguish  them,  as  one  half- 
stunned  by  a  blow,  dizzy  between  its  violence  and  the 
onward  pressure  of  events.  She  put  a  hand  for  support 
upon  the  table  before  her  and  felt,  but  did  not  think  to 
end,  the  unpleasant  shrinking  of  her  flesh  communicated 
by  her  fingers  scraping  the  wood  where  they  bunched 
the  cloth  beneath  them. 

She  was  Lady  Burdon  .  .  . ! 

II 

With  that  amazement  singing  in  her  ears,  and  recov- 
ered from  the  first  effects  of  her  bewilderment,  she  went 
quickly  to  the  door  and  excitedly  up  the  stairs.  She 
was  thirty-five ;  they  called  her  pretty ;  and  certainly 
she  made  an  attractive  presence  as  she  came  to  the 
threshold  of  the  room  where  she  sought  her  husband. 
Her  entry  was  abrupt :  a  quick  jerk  on  the  door  handle, 
the  door  wide  open  and  she  with  a  sudden  movement 


i6  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

standing  there,  tense,  animated,  a  flush  on  her  cheeks, 
sparkle  in  her  eyes,  and  a  high,  glad,  strange  note  in 
the  "Maurice  !"  that  she  cried.     "Maurice  !" 

"Con-found!"  came  the  answer.  "Conster-wa- 
tionl"  and  illustrating  the  reason  of  the  words,  a 
fleck  of  blood  came  through  the  snowy  lather  on  a  chin 
in  process  of  being  shaved. 

Mr.  Letham  —  portly ;  forty ;  pleasant  of  counte- 
nance in  a  loose-lipped,  good-natured  fashion ;  in  a  shirt 
and  trousers  before  the  looking-glass ;  pain  on  face ; 
finger  firmly  on  the  blood  stain ;  razor  in  the  other  hand 
—  Mr.  Letham  peered  short-sightedly  into  the  mirror, 
made  a  very  squeamish  stroke  with  the  razor  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  wound,  and,  quickly  over  his  concern, 
pleasantly  addressed  his  wife. 

"  'Morning,  old  girl.  I  say,  you  made  me  jump.  Am 
I  so  fearfully  late?    What's  for  breakfast?" 

He  did  not  turn  to  face  her.  Viewed  from  behind, 
half-hitched  trousers  and  bulging  shirt,  he  had  a  lump- 
ish appearance,  and  it  was  the  more  inelegant  for  the 
contortions  of  his  arms  and  shoulders,  characteristic  of 
a  clumsy  shaver. 

The  spectacle  caused  Mrs.  Letham  a  pucker  of  the 
brows  that  marred  her  rosy  animation.  She  said, 
"Maurice!  Do  turn  round!  I've  something  to  tell 
you." 

"M-m-m,"  murmured  Mr.  Letham,  at  very  tick- 
lish work  with  the  razor. 

"Maurice!" 

"M-m-m  —  M-m-m.  Beastly  rude,  I  know.  Haif- 
a-second, old  girl.     This  is  a  most  infernal  job  — " 

She  interrupted  him,  "Oh,  listen!  Listen!  In  this 
paper  here — "  Her  voice  caught.  "In  this  paper  — 
you  are  Lord  Burdon  !" 


INTO   THE    PEERAGE  17 

Mr.  Letham,  signalling  amusement  as  best  he  was 
able,  gave  a  kind  of  wriggle  of  his  back,  held  his  breath 
while  he  made  another  stroke  with  the  razor,  and  ex- 
pired the  breath  with  :  "Well,  I'll  buy  a  new  razor  then, 
hanged  if  I  won't.  This  infernal  thing — "  and  he 
bent  towards  the  glass,  peering  at  the  reflection  of  the 
skin  he  had  cleared. 

The  door  behind  him  slammed  violently,  and  then  for 
the  first  time  he  turned.  He  had  thought  her  gone  — 
angry,  as  she  was  often  angry,  at  his  mild  joking.  In- 
stead he  saw  her  standing  there,  one  hand  behind  her 
in  the  action  with  which  she  had  swung- to  the  door,  the 
other  clutching  the  newspaper  all  rumpled  up  against  her 
bosom ;  and  there  was  that  in  her  face,  in  her  eyes,  and 
in  the  tremble  of  her  parted  lips  that  made  him  change 
the  easy,  tolerant  smile  and  the  light  banter  with  which 
he  turned  to  her.  "Only  my  silly  fun,  Nelly,"  he  began. 
"What  is  it?  Some  howler  in  the  newspaper?  Let's 
have  a — "  Then  appreciated  the  pose,  the  eyes,  the 
parted  lips;  and  changed  nervously  to:  "Eh?  Eh? 
What  is  it?    What's  up?" 

She  broke  out:  "Your  fun!  Will  you  only  listen! 
It's  true  —  true  what  I  tell  you  !  You  are  Lord  Burdon." 
Angry  and  incoherent  she  became,  for  her  husband 
blinked  at  her,  and  looked  untidy  and  looked  doltish. 
"He's  unmarried.  I  was  trying  only  the  other  day  to 
interest  you  in  what  that  meant.  When  his  uncle  died 
last  August  I  spoke  to  you  about  it  — " 

Mr.  Letham,  blinking,  more  untidy,  more  doltish: 
"  Who's  unmarried  ?  " 

And  she  cried  at  him:  "Young  Lord  Burdon! 
Young  Lord  Burdon  is  dead  !  He's  been  killed  in  the 
fighting  in  India  — " 

She  stopped.     She  had  moved  him  at  last. 


i8  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

III 

Mr.  Letham  laid  down  his  razor  —  slowly,  letting  the 
handle  slip  noiselessly  from  his  fingers  to  the  dressing- 
table.  Slowly  also  he  lifted  his  face  towards  his  wife, 
and  she  saw  his  mild  forehead  all  puckered,  his  eyes 
dimmed  with  a  bemused  air,  his  loose  mouth  parted  :  she 
particularly  saw  the  comical  aspect  given  to  his  perturba- 
tion by  its  setting  of  little  patches  of  soap  with  the  Httle 
trickle  of  red  at  the  chin. 

He  put  out  a  hand  for  the  paper  and  made  a  slow  step 
towards  her.  "Eh?"  he  said  —  a  kind  of  bleat.  It 
sounded  to  her. 

*'No!  Listen!"  she  told  him.  ''Listen  to  this  at 
the  end  of  the  account,"  and  she  spread  the  sheet  in  her 
hands.  A  little  difficult  to  find  the  place  ...  a  little 
difficult  to  control  her  voice.  .  .  .  "Listen!"  and  she 
found  and  read  aloud,  in  jerky  sentences,  the  paragraph 
that  had  beenmade  out  of  "cuttings  about  Lord  Burdon." 

Almost  in  a  whisper  the  vital  clause  "...  the  suc- 
cessor is  of  a  very  remote  branch  —  Mr.  Maurice  Redpath 
Letham,  whose  paternal  great-grandfather  was  the  eighth 
baron.  ..." 

And  in  a  whisper,  dizzy  again  with  the  amazement  of 
it :     "Maurice  !     Do  you  realise ? " 

His  turn  for  bewilderment.  He  ignored  her  appeal. 
He  did  not  heed  her  agitation.  He  took  the  paper  from 
her  and  she  read  that  in  his  eyes  —  preoccupation  with 
some  idea  outside  her  range  —  that  caused  her  own  to 
harden.  She  crossed  and  stood  against  the  bed  rail,  and 
she  eyed  him  with  narrowing  gaze  as  he  read  Our  Own 
Correspondent's  despatch. 

"Poor  young  beggar!"  he  murmured,  following  the 
story.     "Poor,  plucky  young  beggar  !" 


mTO   THE    PEERAGE  19 

She  just  watched  his  face,  comical  with  its  dabs  of 
drying  soap,  reddening  a  little,  eyeHds  blinking.  She 
watched  him  reach  the  fold  of  the  paper,  ignore  the  para- 
graph relating  to  himself,  and  turn  again  to  Our  Own 
Correspondent's  account.  ''Poor  —  poor,  plucky  young 
beggar !"  he  repeated. 

She  gave  a  Httle  catch  at  her  breath.  He  exasperated 
her  —  exasperated  !  Here  was  the  most  amazing  fortune 
suddenly  theirs,  and  he  was  bHnd  to  it !  Often  Mrs. 
Letham  flamed  against  her  husband  those  outbursts  of 
almost  ungovernable  exasperation  that  a  dull  intelli- 
gence, fumbhng  with  an  idea,  arouses  in  the  quick-witted. 
They  are  the  more  violent,  these  outbursts,  if  the  stupid 
fumbhng,  fumbhng  with  some  moral  issue,  conveys  a 
reproach  to  the  quicker  wit.  She  was  made  to  feel  such 
a  reproach  by  that  reiterated ' '  Poor  young  beggar  !  Poor, 
plucky  young  beggar!"  It  intensified  the  outbreak  of 
exasperation  that  threatened  her;  and  she  told  herself 
the  reproach  was  unmerited,  and  that  intensified  her 
anger  more.  It  was  nothing  to  her  and  less  than  nothing, 
this  boy's  death ;  but  she  had  rushed  up  to  her  husband 
the  better  to  enjoy  her  natural  joy  by  sharing  it  with  him, 
and  ready,  if  he  had  met  her  excitement,  to  compassion- 
ate the  fate  of  young  Lord  Burdon.  He  greeted  her,  in- 
stead, only  with  "Poor  young  beggar!  Poor,  plucky 
young  beggar!"  She  caught  her  breath.  Exaspera- 
tion surged  Hke  a  live  thing  within  her.  If  he  said  it 
again  !  If  he  said  it  again,  she  would  break  out !  She 
could  not  bear  it !  She  would  dash  the  paper  from  his 
hands.  She  would  cry  in  his  startled  face  —  his  doltish 
face:  "What  !  What!  What!  What!  Don't  you 
see  ?  Don't  you  understand  ?  Lord  Burdon !  Lady 
Burdon !  Are  you  a  fool  ?  Are  you  an  utter,  utter 
«oq1?" 


20  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

IV 

He  opened  his  lips  and  she  trembled.  It  is  natural  to 
Judge  her  harshly,  natural  to  misjudge  her,  to  consider 
her  incredibly  snobbish,  cruel,  common.  She  was  none 
of  these.  Given  time,  given  warning,  she  would  have 
received  her  great  news,  received  her  husband's  reception 
of  it,  gently  and  kindly.  But  Kfe  pays  us  no  considera- 
tion of  that  kind.  Events  come  upon  us  not  as  the  night 
merges  from  the  day,  but  as  highway  robbers  clutch  at 
and  grapple  with  us  before  we  can  free  our  weapons. 

Happily,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  taken  the 
paper,  Mr.  Letham  seemed  to  remember  her.  He 
glanced  up,  flushed,  damp  in  the  eyes,  stupidly  droll  with 
the  dabs  of  drying  soap:  "I  say,  Nellie,  did  you  read 
this : 

''  The  hoy  —  he  was  absolutely  no  more  thaji  a  boy  — 
poked  this  way  and  that  on  the  little  ridge  we  had  gained, 
trying,  whimpering  just  like  a  keen  terrier  at  a  thick  hedge, 
to  find  a  way  up  through  the  rocks  and  thorns  above  us. 
We  were  a  dozen  yards  behind  him,  blowing  and  cursing. 
'  Damn  it !  we've  taken  a  bad  miss  in  balk  on  this  line ! '  he 
cried,  turning  round  at  us,  laughing.  Next  moment  he  had 
struck  an  openifig  and  was  scrambling,  on  hands  and  knees. 
^  This  way,  Sergeant-major !'  he  shouted.  ..." 

Portly  Mr.  Letham,  carried  away  by  the  grip  of  the 
thing,  drew  himself  up  and  squared  his  shoulders.  He 
repeated  "'This  way.  Sergeant-major  !'"  and  stuck,  and 
stopped,  and  swallowed,  and  turned  shining  eyes  on  his 
wife  (she  stood  there  brooding  at  him)  and  exclaimed : 
"Can't  you  imagine  it,  Nellie?  Listen:  'This  way, 
Sergeant-major  r  he  shouted,  jumped  on  his  feet,  gave  a 
hand  to  his  sergeant ;  cried  'Come  on!  Come  on!  Whoop! 
Forward !    Fonvard ! '     and  then  staggered,  twisted  a  hit  on 


INTO   THE    PEERAGE  21 

his  toes,  dropped.  I  saw  another  officer-boy  jump  up  to 
him  with  Burden!  Burdon,  old  buck,  have  you  got 
it?'  .  .  ." 

Portly  Mr.  Letham's  voice  cracked  off  into  a  high 
squeak,  and  he  lowered  the  paper  and  said  huskily :  "I 
say,  Nellie,  eh  ?  I  say,  Nellie,  though  ?  That's  the  stuff, 
eh  ?     Poor  boy  !     Brave  boy  !" 

With  imseeing  eyes  he  bHnked  a  moment  at  his  wife's 
face.  Brooding,  she  watched  him.  Then  he  turned  to 
the  washstand  and  began  to  remove  the  signs  of  shaving 
from  his  cheeks,  holding  the  sponge  scarcely  above  the 
water  as  he  squeezed  it  out,  as  though  a  noise  were  un- 
seemly in  the  presence  of  the  scene  his  thoughts  pictured. 

And  she  just  stood  there,  that  brooding  look  upon  her 
face.     Ah  !  again  !    He  was  off  again  ! 

*'And  his  grandmother,"  Mr.  T.etham  said,  wiping  his 
face  in  a  towel,  sniffing  a  Httle,  paying  particular  atten- 
tion to  the  drying  of  his  eyes.  "I  say,  Nellie,  his  poor 
grandmother,  eh  ?  How  she  will  be  suffering  !  Think 
of  her  picking  up  her  paper  and  reading  that !  .  .  .  Only 
saw  him  once,"  he  mumbled  on,  brushing  his  thin  hair. 
"Took  him  across  town  when  he  was  going  home  for  his 
first  holidays  from  Eton.  Remember  it  like  yesterday. 
I  remember  —  " 

It  was  the  end  of  her  endurance ;  she  could  stand  no 
more  of  it.  "Oh,  Maurice!"  she  broke  out;  "oh, 
Maurice,  for  goodness'  sake  !" 

Mr.  Letham  turned  to  her  in  a  puzzled  way.  He 
held  a  hair  brush  in  either  hand  at  the  level  of  his  ears 
and  stared  at  her  from  between  them  :  "Why,  Nellie  —  " 
he  began ;  "what  —  what's  up,  old  girl  ? " 

She  struck  her  hands  sharply  together.  "Oh,  you  go 
on,  you  go  on,  you  go  on  ! "  she  cried.  "You  make  me  — 
don't   you    understand?     Can't   you   understand?     I 


22  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

thought  that  when  I  brought  you  this  news  you'd  be  as 
excited  as  I  was.  Instead  —  instead — "  She  broke 
off  and  changed  her  tone.  "Oh,  do  go  on  brushing  your 
hair.  For  goodness'  sake  don't  stand  staring  at  me  Kke 
that!" 

He  obeyed  in  his  slowish  way.  "Well,  upon  my  soul, 
I  don't  quite  understand,  old  girl,"  he  said  perplexedly. 

"That's  what  I'm  telling  you,"  she  cried  sharply  and 
suddenly.     "You  don't.     You  go  on,  you  go  on  !  " 

He  seemed  to  be  puzzling  over  that.  His  silence  made 
her  break  out  with  the  hard  words  of  her  meaning.  "Do 
you  really  not  understand  ?  "  she  broke  out.  "Do  you  go 
on  Uke  that  just  to  irritate  me?  I  believe  you  do." 
She  gave  her  vexed  laugh  again.  "I  don't  know  what  to 
believe.  It's  ridiculous  —  ridiculous  you  should  be  so 
different  from  everybody  else.  It  means  to  me,  this 
news,  just  this  :  that  it  makes  you  Lord  Burdon.  Can't 
you  realise?     Can't  you  share  my  feelings?" 

"Oh  !"  he  said,  as  if  at  last  he  understood,  and  said 
no  more. 

"How  can  I  work  up  sympathy  for  people  I  have  never 
seen?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  answer  her  —  brushed  his  hair  very  slowly. 

"Nobody  can  say  I  should.  Anybody  in  my  place 
would  feel  as  I  feel." 

Still  no  reply,  and  that  annoyed  her  beyond  measure, 
forced  her  to  say  more  than  she  meant. 

"What  are  they  to  me,  these  Burdons?" 

"They're  my  family,  old  girl,"  Mr.  Letham  ventured. 

She  did  not  wish  to  say  it  but  she  said  it ;  he  goaded 
her.  "You've  never  troubled  to  make  them  mine,"  she 
cried. 

Mr.  Letham  had  done  with  his  hair.  He  struggled  a 
collar  around  his  stout  neck,  examined  what  injury  his 


INTO  THE    PEERAGE  23 

finger  nails  had  suffered  in  the  process,  and  set  to  work  on 
his  tie. 


For  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Letham  frowned  at  the  solid, 
untidy  back  turned  towards  her  —  the  lumped  shoulders, 
the  heavy  neck,  the  bulges  of  shirt  sticking  out  between 
the  braces.  She  gave  a  little  laugh  then  —  useless  to  be 
vexed.  "You've  never  quarrelled  with  any  one  in  your 
Hfe,  have  you,  Maurice  ?"  she  said ;  and  with  a  touch  in 
which  kindhness  struggled  with  impatience,  she  jerked 
down  the  bulging  shirt,  straightened  a  twisted  brace, 
said,  "Let  me  !"  and  by  a  deft  twist  or  two  gave  Mr. 
Letham  a  neater  tie  than  ever  he  had  made  himself. 
"There!  That's  better!     Have  you?"  she  asked. 

He  told  her  smiUng :  "Not  with  you,  anyway,  Nellie." 
Little  attentions  like  these  were  rare,  and  he  hked  them. 
In  his  weak  and  amiable  way  he  patted  the  hand  that 
rested  for  a  moment  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  explained. 
"You're  quite  right,  of  course,  old  girl.  Of  course  I 
reahse  what  it  means  to  you  and  I  ought  to  have  shared 
it  with  you  at  once.  I'm  sorry  —  sorry,  NelUe.  Just 
like  me.  And  about  never  making  them  your  family.  I 
know  you're  right  there.  But  you  don't  really  mean 
that  —  don't  mean  I've  done  it  intentionally.  You 
know  —  I've  often  told  you  —  we  were  miles  apart,  my 
branch  and  theirs  ;  you  do  see  that,  don't  you,  old  girl  ? 
A  different  branch  —  another  crowd  altogether.  I  don't 
suppose  you've  ever  even  heard  of  the  relations  who  stand 
the  same  to  you  as  I  stand  to  the  Burdons.  All  the  time 
we've  been  married,  long  before  that  even,  I've  never  had 
anything  to  do  with  'em."  He  smiled  affectionately  at 
her.     "  That's  all  right,  isn't  it  ?  " 


24  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

She  was  getting  impatient  that  he  ran  on  so.  "Of 
course,  of  course,"  she  said  indifferently.  "I  never 
meant  to  say  that."  And  then  :  "Oh,  Maurice,  but  do 
—  do  —  do  think  what  I'm  feeling."  She  entwined  her 
fingers  about  his  arms  and  looked  caressingly  up  at  him. 
"Have  you  thought  what  it  means  to  us,  Maurice?" 

He  liked  that.  He  liked  the  "us"  from  her  Ups.  His 
normal  disposition  returned  to  him ;  he  smiled  whimsi- 
cally at  her.  "Ton  my  soul,  I  haven't,"  he  said;  and 
added,  smiling  more, "  it's  a  big  order.  By  Gad,  it's  a  big 
order,  Nellie." 

She  clapped  her  hands  in  her  excitement  and  stood 
away  from  him,  her  eyes  sparkling.  "Maurice!  Lord 
Burdon !     Fancy!" 

"It'll  be  a  nuisance,  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  he  grimaced. 

She  laughed  delightedly.  "Oh,  that's  just  like  you  to 
think  that !  A  nuisance !  Maurice !  Think  of  it ! 
Lady  Burdon  —  me  !     It's  a  dream,  isn't  it  ?" 

"It's  a  bit  of  a  startler,"  he  agreed,  smiling  tolerantly 
down  upon  her  excitement. 

She  laughed  aloud.  "But  fancy  you  a  lord  !"  and  she 
looked  at  him,  holding  him  by  both  his  arms  and  laughed 
again.  "A  startler!  A  nuisance!  What  a  —  what  a 
person  you  are,  Maurice  !  Fancy  you  a  lord  !  You'll 
have  to  —  you'll  have  to  buck  up,  Maurice  ! " 

He  turned  away  for  a  moment,  occupying  himself  in 
fumbling  in  a  drawer.  When  he  turned  again  to  her,  his 
face  had  the  tail  of  a  grimace  that  she  thought  expressive 
of  how  repugnant  to  him  was  the  mere  thought  of  any 
change  in  his  life.  "Well,  there's  one  thing,"  he  said. 
"It  won't  be  for  long;"  and  he  tapped  his  heart,  that 
doctors  had  condemned. 

She  knew  that  was  only  his  characteristic  way  of 
joking,  but   a  flicker  of  irritation   shadowed  her  face. 


INTO   THE    PEERAGE  25 

She  hated  reference  to  what  had  often  been  a  spoil-sport 
cry  of  "Wolf!    Wolf!" 

"Oh,  that's  absurd!"  she  cried.  "That's  nonsense; 
you  know  it  is.  Those  doctors  !  Make  haste  and  dress 
and  come  down.  Make  haste  !  Make  haste  !  I  want 
to  talk  all  about  it.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  —  heaps  of 
things  :  what  will  happen,  how  it  will  happen.  Now,  do 
make  haste.  I'll  run  down  now  and  see  to  Baby."  She 
had  danced  away  towards  the  door ;  now  turned  again,  a 
laugh  on  her  face.     "Baby  !  What  is  he  now,  Maurice  ?" 

"Still  a  baby,  I  expect  you'll  find,  though  I  have  been 
nearly  an  hour  dressing." 

For  once  she  laughed  delightedly  at  his  mild  absurdity ; 
Just  now  her  world  answered  with  a  laugh  wherever  she 
touched  a  chord.  "His  title,  I  mean.  An  honourable, 
isn't  it  —  the  son  of  a  peer  ?  The  Honourable  Rollo 
Letham  !  I  must  tell  him  ! "  She  laughed  again,  moved 
lightly  to  the  door  and  went  humming  down  the  stairs. 

Mr.  Letham  waited  till  the  sound  had  passed.  When 
the  slam  of  a  distant  door  announced  the  unHkelihood  of 
her  return,  he  dropped  rather  heavily  into  a  chair  and 
put  his  hand  against  the  heart  he  had  playfully  tapped. 
"  Confound  ! "  said  Mr.  Letham,  breathing  hard.  "  Con- 
ster-nation  and  damn  the  thing.  Like  a  sword,  that 
one.    Like  a  twisting  sword  !" 

For  the  new  Lady  Burdon  had  been  wrong  in  estimat- 
ing any  humour  in  the  grimace  with  which  he  had  looked 
at  her  after  turning  away,  while  she  told  him  he  must 
buck  up. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    FORETASTE    OF    THE    PEERAGE 


A  WORRYING  morning  foreshadowed  —  or  might  have 
foreshadowed  —  to  Egbert  Hunt  the  strain  and  distress 
of  the  afternoon  whose  effect  upon  him  we  have  seen. 
Normally  his  master  was  closeted  in  the  study  with  the 
three  young  men  who  read  with  him  for  University  ex- 
aminations; his  mistress  engaged  first  in  her  house- 
hold duties,  then  in  her  customary  run  on  her  bicycle 
before  lunch;  shopping,  taking  some  flowers  to  the 
cottage  hospital,  exchanging  the  magazines  for  which  her 
circle  subscribed.  These  occupations  of  master  and 
mistress  enabled  Egbert  to  evade  with  nice  calculation 
the  tasks  that  fell  to  him.  This  morning  the  household, 
as  he  expressed  it,  was  "all  of  a  boihn'  jump,"  whereby 
he  was  vastly  incommoded,  being  much  harried.  The 
three  young  men  thoughtfully  denied  themselves  the  in- 
tellectual delights  of  their  usual  labours  with  Mr.Letham. 
"Lucky  dawgs,"  said  Egbert  bitterly,  hiding  in  the  bath- 
room and  watching  them  from  the  window  meet  down  the 
road,  confer,  laugh,  and  skim  off  on  their  bicycles ;  his 
mistress  —  writing  letters,  talking  excitedly  with  her 
husband  —  did  everything  except  settle  to  any  particular 
task.  The  result  was  to  keep  Egbert  ceaselessly  upon 
"the  'op,"  and  he  resented  it  utterly. 

26 


A  FORETASTE  OF  THE  PEERAGE    27 

II 

With  the  afternoon  the  visitors ;  the  satisfying  at  last 
of  the  excitement  that  had  thrilled  Miller's  Field  to  the 
marrow  since  the  newspapers  were  opened. 

A  little  difficult,  the  good  ladies  thought  it,  to  know 
exactly  what  to  say. 

Some,  on  greeting  Mrs.  Letham,  boldly  plumped: 
"My  dear,  I  do  congratulate  you!"  At  the  other  ex- 
treme of  tact  in  grasping  a  novel  situation,  those  who 
cleverly  began,  "My  dear,  I  saw  it  in  the  'Morning 
Post'  !"  a  wary  opening  that  enabled  one  to  model  senti- 
ments on  the  lead  given  in  reply. 

"My  dear,  I  do  congratulate  you  ! "  "My  dear, I  saw  it 
in  the  'Morning  Post' !"  and  "Ho,  do  yer,  thenk  yer !" 
from  bone-tired  Egbert,  mimicking  as  he  closed  the  door 
behind  the  one;  and  "Ho,  did  yer,  boil  yer  !"  closing  it 
behind  the  other. 

Between  these  forms,  then,  or  with  slight  variations 
upon  them,  fell  all  the  salutations  but  that  of  Mrs. 
Sa\ile-Phillips  who,  arriving  late,  treading  on  Egbert's 
foot  in  her  impressive  halt  on  the  threshold,  called  in  her 
dashing  way  across  the  crowded  drawing-room,  "And 
where  is  Lady  Burdon  ?  " 

She  was  at  her  tea  table,  closely  surrounded,  prettily 
coloured  by  excitement,  animated,  at  her  best,  tastefully 
gowmed  in  a  becoming  dove-grey  that  fortuitously  had 
arrived  from  the  dressmaker  that  morning  and  mingled 
(she  felt)  a  tribute  to  her  new  dignity  with  a  touch  of 
half-mourning  for  the  boy  her  relationship  to  whom 
death  with  a  hot  finger  had  touched  to  Hfe.  Thus  Mrs. 
Letham  —  new  Lady  Burdon  —  took  the  eye  and  took 
it  well.  This  was  the  moment  of  her  triumph  ;  and  that 
is  a  moment  that  is  fairy  wand  to  knock  asunder  the 


28  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

shackles  of  the  heavier  years,  restoring  youth  ;  to  wann 
and  make  generous  the  heart ;  to  light  the  eye  and  lilt  the 
spirit.  Hers,  hers  that  moment !  She  the  commanding 
and  captivating  figure  in  that  assembly  ! 

Her  spirit  was  equal  with  her  presence.  Physically 
queening  it  among  her  friends,  psychically  she  was  aloft 
and  afloat  in  the  exaltation  that  her  bearing  advertised. 
Each  new  congratulation  as  it  came  was  a  vassal  hand 
put  out  to  touch  the  sceptre  she  chose  to  extend.  The 
prattle  of  voices  was  a  delectable  hymn  raised  to  her 
praise  in  her  new  dignity.  She  was  mentally  enthroned, 
queen  of  a  kingdom  all  her  own ;  and  as  she  visuaUsed 
its  fair  places  she  had  a  sense  of  herself,  Cinderella-like, 
shedding  drab  garments  from  her  shoulders,  appearing 
most  wonderfully  arrayed;  shaking  from  her  skirts 
the  dull  past,  with  eager  hands  greeting  a  future  splen- 
didly coloured,  singing  to  her  with  siren  note,  created 
for  her  foot  and  her  pleasure. 

Consider  her  state.  The  better  to  consider  it, 
consider  that  something  of  these  sensations  is  the 
lot  of  every  woman  when,  on  her  marriage  eve,  a 
girl,  sleepless  she  Hes  through  that  night,  imaging  the 
womanhood  that  waits  her  beyond  the  darkness.  It  is 
the  threshold  of  life  for  woman,  this  m'ght  before  the 
vow,  and  has  no  counterpart  in  all  a  man's  days  from 
boyhood  to  grave.  How  should  it?  The  sexes  are  as 
widely  sundered  in  habit,  thought,  custom,  as  two  sepa- 
rate and  most  ahen  races.  Love  has  conducted  every 
plighted  woman  to  this  threshold  and  has  so  delectably 
engaged  her  attention  on  the  road  that  she  has  reck- 
oned little  of  the  new  world  towards  which  she  is  speed- 
ing. Now,  on  her  marriage  eve,  she  is  at  night  and 
alone :  her  eager  feet  upon  the  immediate  moment  be- 
yond whose  passage  lies  the  unexplored.     Love  for  this 


A  FORETASTE  OF  THE  PEERAGE    29 

space  takes  rest.  To-morrow  he  will  lead  her  blind- 
folded into  the  new  country ;  to-night,  poised  upon  the 
crest  to  which  blindfolded  he  has  led  her,  she  stands  and 
looks  across  the  prospect,  shading  her  eyes,  atremble 
with  ecstasy  at  the  huge  adventure.  Mighty  courage 
she  has  —  a  frail  figure,  barriers  closing  up  behind  her 
to  shut  forever  the  easy  paths  of  maidenhood;  hill 
and  valley  stretching  limitless  before,  where  He  lurking 
heaven  knows  what  ravening  monsters.  But  she  is  the 
born  explorer,  predestined  for  this  frightful  plunge  into 
the  unknown,  heedless  of  its  dangers,  intoxicated  by  its 
spaciousness,  amazingly  confident  in  Love's  power  and 
devotion  to  keep  her  in  the  pleasant  places.  And  Love  — 
he  the  reckless  treaty-monger  between  the  alien  races 
—  is  prone,  unhappily,  to  lead  her  a  dozen  entangling 
steps  down  the  crest,  and  there  to  leave  her  in  the  smil- 
ing hills  suddenly  become  wilderness,  in  the  little  valleys 
suddenly  become  abyss. 

Mrs.  Letham  had  enjoyed  that  intoxicating  moment 
upon  the  crest.  Something  of  its  sensations  were  hers 
again  now ;  but  she  found  their  thrill  a  far  more  delect- 
able affair.  Again  she  was  upon  the  crest  whence  an 
alluring  prospect  stretched ;  but  now  she  looked  with 
eyes  not  filmed  by  ignorance;  now  could  have  seen 
desert  places,  pitfalls,  if  such  had  been,  but  saw  that 
there  were  none.     Or  so  she  thought. 

Already,  in  the  congratulations  she  was  receiving,  she 
was  tasting  the  first  sweets,  plucking  the  first  fruits 
with  which  she  saw  the  groves  behung.  For  the  first 
time  she  found  herself  and  her  fortunes  the  centre  of  a 
crowded  drawing-room's  conversation.  For  the  first 
time  she  enjoyed  the  thrill  of  eager  attention  at  her 
command  when  she  chose  to  raise  her  voice.  It  was 
good,  good.     It  was  sufficient  to  her  for  the  moment. 


30  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

But  her  exalted  mind  ran  calculating  ahead  of  it,  even 
while  she  rejoiced  in  it.  She  had  her  httle  Rollo  brought 
in  to  her,  and  kq^t  him  on  her  knee,  and  stroked  his 
hair;  and  once  and  twice  and  many  times  went  into 
dreams  of  all  that  now  awaited  him ;  and  with  an  efifort 
had  to  recall  herself  to  the  attentions  of  her  guests. 

As  evening  stole  out  from  the  trees,  in  shadows  across 
the  lawn  and  in  dusk  against  the  windows,  like  some 
stealthy  stranger  peering  in,  her  party  began  to  separate. 
A  few  closer  friends  clustered  about  her,  and  the  con- 
versation became  more  particular.  Yes,  it  would  mean 
leaving  Miller's  Field  —  dear  Miller's  Field ;  and  leav- 
ing them,  but  never,  never  forgetting  them.  Elated, 
triumphant,  and  therefore  generous,  emotional,  she 
almost  believed  that  indeed  she  would  be  sorry  to  lose 
these  friends. 

As  one  warmed  with  wine  has  a  largeness  of  spirit  that 
swamps  his  proper  self  in  its  generous  delusions,  so  she, 
warmed  with  triumph,  was  genuine  enough  in  all  her 
protestations.  With  real  affection  she  handed  over 
kindly  Mrs.  Archer,  the  doctor's  wife,  who  stayed  last, 
to  the  good  offices  of  Egbert  Hunt,  and  in  a  happy, 
happy  glow  of  elation  returned  to  her  drawing-room. 
This  was  the  beginning  of  it ! 

This  the  beginning  of  it !  She  drew  a  long  breath, 
smiling  to  herself,  her  hands  pressed  together ;  through 
the  glass  doors  giving  on  to  the  lawn  she  espied  her 
husband,  and  smihng  she  went  quickly  across  and  opened 
them. 

Ill 

Mr.  Letham  was  coming  in  from  work  in  the  garden. 
He  had  a  watering-can  in  one  hand,  with  the  other  he 


A  FORETASTE   OF  THE  PEERAGE         31 

trailed  a  rake.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  his  face 
was  damp  with  his  exertions  around  the  flower-beds. 
"  Hullo  !    All  gone  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  warmth  of  her  spirit  caused  her  to  extend  her 
hands  to  him  with  a  sudden,  affectionate  gesture : 

"All,  yes.  Maurice,  you  were  an  old  wretch!  You 
might  have  come  in." 

"Simply  couldn't,  old  girl.  I  had  a  squint  through 
the  window,  and  fled  and  hid  behind  a  bush.  Thousands 
of  you ;  it  looked  awful ! " 

She  laughed:  "Miserable  coward!  I  was  hoping 
you  would." 

"Were  you,  though?"  he  said  eagerly.  "I'd  have 
come  like  a  shot  if  I'd  known." 

That  made  her  laugh  again :  he  was  always  the  lover. 
"Well,  come  and  have  a  talk  now  to  make  up,"  she  told 
hun.  "Out  here  in  the  garden.  It's  frightfully  hot  in 
this  room." 

His  face  beamed.  He  put  down  the  implements  he 
was  carrying,  wiped  a  hand  on  his  waistcoat  and  slipped 
his  fingers  beneath  her  arm.  "That's  a  stunning  dress," 
he  said. 

She  gathered  up  the  trailing  skirt  and  glanced  down 
at  it,  well  pleased.     "It  is  rather  nice,  isn't  it?" 

"Fine  !  You  look  as  pretty  as  a  picture  this  evening, 
Nellie.  I  tell  you,  I  thought  so,  wh^n  I  squinted  in 
through  the  window." 

"That's  because  I'm  so  happy." 

"So  am  I."  He  pressed  her  arm  to  show  why,  and 
"Maurice!  you  are  a  goose,"  was  her  gay  comment; 
but  for  once  his  fooHsh  loverhkeness  pleased  her;  her 
mood  was  widely  charitable. 

They  paced  the  Httle  lawn  in  silence.  She  suddenly 
asked,  "You  don't  mind  my  being  happy,  do  you?" 


32  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Mind  !     Good  Lord  !"  and  he  pressed  her  arm  again. 

"Being  excited  about  —  about  it,  I  mean.  It's 
natural,  Maurice?" 

"Of  course  it  is.     Of  course  it  is,  old  girl." 

"But  you're  not  —  it  doesn't  excite  you  ? " 

Mr.  Letham  was  too  honest,  even  at  risk  of  disturbing 
this  happy  passage,  to  pretend  the  untrue.  "Well, 
that's  nothing,"  he  said.  "That's  nothing.  I'm  so 
beastly  slow.     An  earthquake  wouldn't  excite  me." 

"I  don't  believe  it  would,"  she  laughed,  then  was 
serious.  "But  I'm  excited,"  she  said  abruptly.  "Oh, 
I  am  !"  She  put  up  her  face  towards  the  veiling  sky  — 
a  dim  star  here  and  a  dim  star  there  and  a  faint  breeze 
rising  —  and  she  drew  a  deep  breath  just  as  she  had 
breathed  deeply  in  the  drawing-room  a  few  moments 
earlier.  "Oh,  I  am!"  she  repeated.  "Maurice!  I 
want  to  talk  about  it." 

He  was  not  at  all  conscious  of  the  full  intensity  of 
her  feeHngs ;  but  for  such  of  it  as  he  perceived  he  smiled 
at  her  in  his  tolerant  way.  "Well,  you  say,"  he  told 
her.     "You  do  the  talking." 

She  was  silent  for  a  considerable  space ;  her  mind  run 
far  ahead  and  occupied  among  thoughts  to  which  she 
could  not  introduce  him,  for  he  had  no  place  in  them. 
That  he  shivered  slightly  recalled  his  presence  to  her. 
That  his  presence  had  been  deliberately  shut  from  among 
the  castles  she  had  been  building  caused  her  one  of  those 
qualms  which  (if  we  are  kind)  often  sting  us  back  from 
our  worser  self  to  our  better  nature.  And  she  was  kind, 
alternating  ceaselessly  between  the  many  womanly 
parts  she  had  and  those  other  parts  we  all  possess ;  only 
to  be  pitied  if  the  events  now  quickly  shaping  for  her 
tempted  her  too  much,  led  her  too  far  from  the  point 
whence  kindness  is  recoverable. 


A  FORETASTE   OF  THE  PEERAGE        33 

Recalled  to  him  and  to  her  womanliness,  *'0h,  your 
coat!"  she  exclaimed.  ''You've  been  getting  hot  and 
you'll  catch  your  death  of  chill.  You're  dreadfully 
careless.     Where  is  it  ?  " 

"In  the  summer-house.     But  what  rot !" 

"I'll  get  it."  She  sHpped  her  arm  from  his  hand  and 
ran  away  across  the  lawn.  "There  !"  she  said,  return- 
ing.    "Now  button  it  up.     Ah!    You're  all  thumbs!" 

She  fastened  it  for  him  and  turned  up  the  collar.  The 
action  brought  her  face  close  to  his.  "You're  Jolly 
good  to  me,  Nellie,"  he  said,  and  his  Hps  brushed  her 
forehead.  A  kiss  it  had  been,  but  she  drew  back  a 
step.  "Not  going  to  have  you  ill  on  my  hands,"  she 
told  him  brightly.  Then  she  slipped  a  hand  into  his 
arm  and  resumed,  "What  are  we  going  to  do  —  first? 
I  want  to  talk  about  that." 

She  had  talked  to  him  of  it  all  the  morning;  but  as 
if  it  were  undiscussed  —  anything  to  preserve  these 
happy  moments  —  "Yes,  go  on,"  he  said. 

She  responded  eagerly.  "Well,  we  must  write  to 
Lady  Burdon,  of  course  —  Jane  Lady  Burdon,  now, 
you  said,  didn't  you?  Not  to-day.  Better  wait  a 
day  —  to-morrow." 

"That  is  what  I  thought." 

"Yes  —  yes  —  and  then  you  will  have  to  go  to  see 
her.  By  yourself.  I  won't  come  at  first."  She  gave 
a  little  sound  of  laughter.  "I  don't  think  I  shall  much 
like  Jane  Lady  Burdon,  from  what  you  told  me  this 
morning." 

He  asked  her:  "Good  lord,  why,  NeUie?  Why, 
what  did  I  tell  you?  I've  only  seen  her  once,  years 
and  years  ago." 

"You  made  her  out  proud;  you  said  she  would  feel 
this  terribly." 


34  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"That  poor  boy's  death  ?  Of  course  she  would.  She 
was  devoted  to  him.  Look,  he  was  no  more  than  Rollo's 
age  when  his  father  died.  She  brought  him  up.  Been 
mother  and  father  to  him  all  his  life.  Imagine  how 
she'd  feel  it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that;  feel  us  coming  in,  I  mean. 
Proud  in  that  way." 

It  was  an  idea  that  another  man,  though  he  knew 
it  true,  would  have  laughed  aside.  Mr.  Letham's  hope- 
less simplicity  put  him  to  a  stumbling  explanation. 
"Ah,  but  proud's  not  the  word  —  not  fair,"  he  said. 
"She  has  pride;  you  understand  the  difference,  don't 
you,  old  girl?  A  tremendous  family  pride.  She'll 
feel  this  break  in  the  direct  descent  —  father  to  son, 
as  it  said  in  the  newspaper,  ever  since  there  was  a 
Burdon.  It  is  one  of  their  traditions,  at  the  bottom 
of  half  their  traditions,  and  they're  simply  wrapped 
up  in  that  kind  of  thing.  I  should  think  there  never 
was  a  family  with  so  many  observances  —  laws  of  its 
own." 

"Tell  me,"  she  said :  and  while  they  paced,  he  spoke 
of  this  family  whose  style  and  dignity  they  were  to  take ; 
and  while  he  spoke,  sometimes  she  pressed  together  her 
lips  and  contracted  her  brows  as  though  hostile  towards 
the  pictures  he  made  her  see,  sometimes  breathed  quickly 
and  took  a  light  in  her  eyes  as  though  she  foretasted 
delights  that  he  presented.  She  had  no  romantic  sense 
in  her  nature,  else  had  been  moved  by  such  traditions 
of  the  House  of  Burdon  as,  he  said,  he  could  remember. 
That  white  roses  were  never  permitted  in  the  grounds 
of  Burdon  Old  Manor,  that  no  male  but  the  head  of  the 
family  might  put  on  his  hat  within  the  threshold,  that 
the  coming  of  age  of  sons  was  celebrated  at  twenty-four, 
not  twenty-one,  —  she  scarcely  heeded  the  legends  at- 


A  FORETASTE  OF  THE  PEERAGE         35 

taching  to  these  observances.  "Rather  silly,"  she 
named  them,  and  did  not  condescend  a  reply  to  her 
husband's  weak  defence,  "Well,  they  rather  get  you, 
you  know,  don't  you  think  ?" 

He  spoke  of  the  Burdon  motto,  the  arrogant,  "I  hold  ! " 
that  was  of  the  bone  of  Burdon  character,  so  he  said. 
"I  remember  my  old  grandfather  telhng  me  lots  about 
that,"  he  told  her.  "It  sums  them  up.  That's  the 
kind  they've  always  been :  headstrong  and  absolutely 
fearless,  like  that  poor  boy,  and  stubborn  —  stubborn 
as  mules  where  their  rights,  or  their  will,  or  their  pride 
is  concerned.  Stubborn  in  having  their  own  way,  and 
stubborn  in  doing  or  not  doing  simply  because  the 
thing's  done  or  not  done  in  the  traditions  they're  bred 
up  in." 

He  stopped  and  bent  to  her  with  "Yes,  what  did 
you  say?"  but  only  caught  her  repeating  to  herself 
intensely  and  beneath  her  breath,  "I  hold  !" 

"Yes,  it's  rather  fine,  isn't  it?"  he  said;  and  he  went 
on:  "Well,  that's  just  what  I  mean  about  old  Lady 
Burdon.  She'll  have  felt  that  she  was  holding  for  her 
grandson,  had  held  all  these  years,  and  now  was  the  one, 
the  only  one,  to  see  the  tradition  break,  the  direct  suc- 
cession pass.  That's  what  I  mean  by  saying  she  has 
pride  and  will  feel  it.  That  time  I  saw  her,  as  I  was  tell- 
ing you  this  morning,  when  that  poor  boy  was  about 
Rollo's  age  and  I  was  doing  a  walking  tour  down  in 
Wiltshire  and  managed  to  get  up  courage  to  go  to  Burdon 
Old  Manor  and  introduce  myself,  I  noticed  it  then.  She 
was  dividing  all  her  time  between  the  boy  and  a  quaint 
kind  of  'Lives  of  the  Barons  Burdon'  as  she  called  it,  a 
manuscript  life  of  each  holder  of  the  title,  hunting  up  all 
the  old  records  and  traditions  and  things  with  the  li- 
brarian ;  he  was  as  keen  on  it  as  she.    He  ..." 


36  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Where  will  she  be  now,  do  you  think?"  Mrs. 
Letham  interrupted.     *'  In  town  ?  " 

"In  town  for  certain.  She'd  be  sure  to  be  where  she 
could  always  get  earUest  news  of  the  boy." 

"In  the  town  house?  Burdon  House  in  Mount 
Street,  you  said,  didn't  you  ?  Have  you  ever  been  there  ? 
What's  it  Hke?" 

"No,  never  been  in.  A  whacking  great  place,  from  the 
outside.  That's  where  she'll  be  all  right,  unless  they've 
sold  it." 

Mrs.  Letham  gave  him  a  sudden  full  attention.  "  Sold 
it  ?    Why  should  they  have  sold  it  ?  " 

"The  ancient  reason  —  want  of  money,"  he  replied 
Ughtly. 

She  made  no  response  nor  responsive  movement ;  yet 
some  emotion  that  she  had  seemed  to  communicate  it- 
self to  him,  for  looking  down  at  her,  half-whimsically, 
half-gravely,  "I  say,  you  don't  think  we've  come  into 
untold  wealth,  do  you,  NelHe  ?"  he  said. 

She  took  her  hand  sharply  from  his  arm.  Much  that 
he  had  said,  though  she  could  not  have  analysed  why, 
had  caused  her  kinder  self  to  ebb.  Now  it  left  her. 
She  answered  him  by  asking  him :  "What  of  all  those 
names  you  told  me?     Tell  me  them  again." 

"The  property?  The  Burdon  Old  Manor  property? 
Little  Letham,  and  Shepwell,  and  Burdon,  and  Abbess 
Roding,  and  Nunford,  and  Market  Roding:  those,  do 
you  mean?" 

"Yes,  I  mean  those.  How  do  you  mean  'the  ancient 
reason,  want  of  money'  ?" 

"Well,  that's  all  there  is,  though.  The  money  is  all 
out  of  the  estate.    Nothing  more." 

She  said  impatiently :     "Well  ?    AU  those  villages  ? " 

"All  those  duties,"  he  corrected  her.     "That's  the 


A  FORETASTE  OF  THE  PEERAGE        37 

Burdon  way  of  looking  at  it.  What  they  make  on  Abbess 
Roding  they  lose  on  Market  Roding,  so  to  speak.  It's 
that  'I  hold!'  business  again.  They  won't  sell;  they 
won't  raise  rents  when  leases  fall  in ;  they  never  refuse 
improvements  that  can  possibly  be  afforded.  The 
tenantry  have  been  there  for  generations.  No  Burdon 
would  ever  think  of  turning  them  off  or  of  refusing  them 
anything;  it  wouldn't  enter  his  head.  That's  why  I 
said  Burdon  House  in  Mount  Street  might  be  sold.  It's 
unUkely,  but  I  remember  there  was  talk  of  it  in  my  grand- 
father's time.  It  belongs  to  an  older  day,  when  they  were 
wealthier.  They'd  sacrifice  that,  if  need  be,  though  it 
would  be  hke  a  death  in  the  family ;  but  anything  rather 
than  the  bare  idea  of  interfering  with  the  people  they 
regard  as  a  trust." 

He  spoke  quite  easily,  never  realising  the  intensity  of 
her  feelings.  "Oh,  it's  no  untold  wealth,"  he  laughed. 
*'You  mustn't  think  that." 

She  said  after  a  little  space,  "Richer  than  we  are, 
though?"  and  added,  comforting  herself  with  an  old 
truism,  "What's  poverty  to  one  is  wealth  to  another." 

"Oh,  richer  than  we  are.  Good  lord,  yes,  I  hope  so. 
I'm  thinking  of  years  ago,  anyway.  Things  may  have 
changed.     I'm  telhng  you  of  when  I  was  a  kid." 

She  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief  and  she  made  a  little 
laugh  at  the  mood  she  had  permitted  to  beset  her  —  that 
sigh  we  give  and  that  laugh  we  make  when  we  shake 
ourselves  from  vague  fears,  or  open  our  eyes  from  disturb- 
ing dreams.  Folly  to  be  fearful !  Life  is  a  biggish  field ; 
easy  to  give  those  fears  the  slip  !  The  day  is  here,  night 
ridiculous !  She  laughed  and  turned  smiling  to  her 
husband  and  proposed  they  should  go  in.  "I've  got  an 
extra  special  little  dinner  for  you  —  to  celebrate,"  she 
told  him. 


38  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

He  pressed  her  arm  against  his  side.  ''And  I've  got  an 
extra  special  little  appetite  for  it,"  he  said.  "Makes  me 
feel  fearfully  fit  to  see  you  so  happy." 

"Well,  I  am,"  she  replied,  and  sighed  her  content  and 
said  again  "I  am  !  " 

IV 

The  night  ridiculous  !  But  when  night  came  it  caught 
her  unstrung,  too  excited  for  immediate  sleep,  and  visited 
her  with  vague  resentments,  with  vague  but  chilly  fears. 
They  came  gradually.  Long,  long  she  lay  awake, 
visioning  the  gleaming  future.  Her  Rollo  trod  it  with 
her  —  its  golden  paths,  limitless  of  dehghts  —  her  Httle 
son  rejoicing  into  manhood  as  he  walked  them.  She  was 
intensely  devoted  to  her  baby  Rollo,  bom  two  years 
before.  Marriage  had  disappointed  her ;  from  its  outset, 
directly  she  began  to  realise  Maurice,  she  accounted  her- 
self robbed  of  all  it  ought  to  have  given  her.  Motherhood 
had  recompensed  her;  from  Rollo 's  birth  she  had  begun 
to  dream  dreams  for  him.  Now  !  She  got  out  of  bed 
and  went  to  his  cradle  and  bent  above  him,  most  happily, 
most  adoringly,  as  he  slept.  It  was  there  and  so  occupied 
that  the  first  vague,  unreasonable  fear  came  to  disturb 
her  night.  It  was  gone  as  soon  as  it  had  come,  and  it  had 
neither  shape  nor  meaning.  Yet  its  discomfort  made 
her  frown.  She  had  frowned  in  the  midst  of  happiness 
when  Maurice  was  telling  her  of  Burdon  traditions,  and 
the  repetition  of  the  action  returned  her  mind  to  what  had 
occupied  it  then. 

At  once  resentments  began  to  stir.  She  found  herself 
resentful  of  Jane  Lady  Burdon,  as  drawn  by  Maurice ; 
of  the  tenantry  at  Burdon  Old  Manor,  who  were  regarded 
as  a  trust  —  a  greedy,  expensive  trust  on  his  showing ; 


A  FORETASTE  OF  THE  PEERAGE    39 

nay,  of  the  Old  Manor  itself,  if  saturated  in  traditions 
such  as  he  described.  Why  resentful?  At  first  she 
could  not  say,  and  worried.  Then  the  reason  came  to 
her.  It  was  the  feeling  that  this  old  lady,  not  proud  but 
having  pride,  a  ridiculous  distinction,  this  old  lady,  these 
tenantry,  those  traditions  would  resent  her.  Resent  her  ? 
She  could  not  get  away  from  the  thought,  and  it  irritated 
her  and  tired  her.  Yes,  and  rob  her,  and  that  irritated 
and  tired  her  the  more.  She  began  to  desire  sleep  and 
could  not  sleep  for  these  resentments.  Resent  her  ? 
Rob  her  ?  She  grew  angry  that  she  could  not  sleep,  and 
then  suddenly  calmed  herself  by  deliberately  setting  her- 
self to  see  how  grotesque  such  thoughts  were.  After  all, 
what  could  they  do,  even  suppose  they  desired  her  hurt  ? 
It  came  to  her,  with  a  grim  sense  of  the  humour  of  it, 
that  their  own  motto  was  against  them.  ''I  hold!"  It 
was  she  who  held  ! 

"  I  hold  ! "  The  old  motto  did  its  new  mistress  its  first 
service.  It  charmed  her,  at  last,  to  sleep.  Immediately, 
as  it  seemed  to  her,  she  passed  into  dreams  of  her  amazing 
happiness;  and  in  their  midst  the  motto  rose  against 
her.  In  their  midst  the  vague  fear  that  had  troubled  her 
while  she  bent  over  her  Rollo  —  but  vague  no  longer  — 
became  definite  and  horrible.  She  was  taunted,  she  was 
terrified  by  some  force  that  told  her  it  was  all  untrue ; 
that  tortured  her  she  was  befooled  and  did  not  hold  and 
should  never  hold  the  amazement  she  fancied  hers. 
Terrified  and  struggling,  "I  hold  ! "  she  cried.  It  became 
the  delirium  of  her  sleep.  Again  and  again  "I  hold! 
I  hold  !"  and  always  from  that  force  the  answer,  quiet 
but  most  terribly  assured :  "No,  you  do  not !  Nay,  I 
hold!"  Horror  and  panic  overcame  her.  She  was  so 
nearly  awake  that  she  tried  to  awake  but  could  not. 
"I  hold!    I  hold!"     "No,  you  do  not.     Nay,  I  hold!" 


40  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

There  was  no  escape,  no  escape.  .  .  .  When  at  last  her 
fevered  brain  broke  out  of  sleep,  she  awoke  to  hear  her 
own  voice  cry  it  aloud  in  agony  :  "  I  hold  ! "  and  shaking, 
unnerved,  thanked  God  for  young  morning  stealing  about 
the  room,  and  none  and  nothing  to  rebuke  or  contradict 
that  waking  cry. 


CHAPTER  V 

MISREADING    A    PEERESS 


We  will  give  them  their  title  now. 

Events  fell  out  much  as  the  new  Lady  Burdon  had 
planned.  On  the  day  following  the  news,  the  new  Lord 
Burdon  wrote  a  few  sympathetic  lines  to  Jane  Lady 
Burdon ;  two  days  later  he  received  an  acknowledgment 
from  the  house  in  Mount  Street.  She  would  Hke  to  see 
him,  Jane  Lady  Burdon,  wrote,  but  she  would  like  a  Uttle 
time  in  which  to  accommodate  herself  to  her  sad  affliction. 
Perhaps  he  would  arrange  to  call  on  that  day  week ;  and 
meanwhile,  if  he  could  see  Mr.  Pemberton,  they  would  be 
spared  much  explanation  relative  to  the  sudden  change. 

"Rather  cold,"  was  Lady  Burdon's  comment;  but 
her  attention  was  taken  by  another  letter  brought  in 
with  Jane  Lady  Burdon's  by  Egbert  Hunt,  as  they  sat 
at  early  breakfast,  and  overlooked  in  the  excitement. 
"And  Mr.  Pemberton  —  who  is  Mr.  Pemberton?"  she 
asked,  but  had  opened  this  other  envelope  while  she 
spoke,  taken  the  gist  of  its  letter  at  a  glance,  and  herself 
answered  her  question,  looking  up  with  flushed  face  and 
sparkling  eyes.     "He's  the  soHcitor,"  she  said. 

Lord  Burdon  nodded.  "So  he  is.  The  name  comes 
back  to  me." 

"This  is  from  him  —  to  you.     It's  afl  right.     He  says 

41 


42  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

it's  all  right,  Maurice.  He's  the  lawyer.  He  knows. 
He  admits  it." 

"Sounds  as  though  he'd  committed  a  crime.  What 
does  he  admit?" 

She  was  very  happy,  so  she  laughed.  "Listen  !"  and 
she  read  him  the  letter  in  wliich,  in  stilted,  lawyer  Hke 
terms,  Matthew  Pemberton  (as  it  was  signed)  formally 
advised  him  of  the  death  in  action  on  the  northwestern 
frontier  of  India,  and  of  his  succession  to  the  barony  and 
entailed  estates.  The  firm  of  Pemberton,  it  appeared, 
had  for  many  generations  enjoyed  the  honour  of  acting 
for  the  house  of  Burdon,  and,  acting  on  Jane  Lady  Bur- 
don's  instructions,  Matthew  Pemberton  desired  to  pro- 
pose an  interview  "here  or  at  your  lordship's  residence,  as 
may  be  most  convenient  to  your  lordship." 

"Maurice  !"  Lady  Burdon  exclaimed,  and  handed  him 
the  letter;  and  when  he  had  read  it,  "There  !  There's 
no  doubt  now,  is  there?" 

He  had  frowned  over  it  as  though  it  troubled  him.  At 
her  words  he  looked  up  and  smiled  at  her  beaming  face 
and  patted  her  hand.  "Why,  you  never  had  any  doubt, 
had  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  gave  the  slightest  possible  shiver;  but  with  it 
shook  off  the  recollection  that  had  caused  it.  "Oh,  I 
don't  know,"  she  answered.  "I  do  believe  I  had;  yes, 
I  had.  I  couldn't  realise  it  sometimes.  There  was  noth- 
ing—  nothing  to  go  on.  Now  there  is,  though  !"  And 
she  touched  the  letters  that  were  the  magic  carpet  ar- 
rived to  wing  her  from  the  dehrium  of  that  night  toward 
the  amazement  that  night  had  threatened. 

She  exclaimed  again,  "Now  there  is!"  and,  pushing 
back  her  chair,  rose  vigorously  to  her  feet,  casting  aside 
forever  (so  she  told  herself)  that  nightmare  dream  and 
animatedly  breaking  into  "plans."    Too  animated  to  be 


MISREADING  A  PEERESS  43 

still,  too  excited  to  eat,  gaily,  and  with  a  commanding 
banter  that  rendered  him  utterly  happy,  she  easily  influ- 
enced her  husband,  against  his  purpose,  to  bid  Mr. 
Pemberton  make  the  proposed  interview  at  Miller's 
Field,  not  Bedford  Row.  "'At  your  lordship's  resi- 
dence,' "  she  laughed.  "It's  his  place  to  do  the  run- 
ning about,  not  yours.  And  tell  him  —  I'll  help  you  to 
write  the  letter  —  tell  him  to  come  the  day  after  to- 
morrow, not  to-morrow.  Don't  let  him  think  we're 
bursting  with  eagerness." 

"By  gum,  he'd  better  not  see  you,  then,"  Lord  Burdon 
said  grimly. 

She  gave  him  a  playful  pinch.  "Oh,  I'll  do  the  high 
and  haughty  stare  all  right,"  she  told  him,  and  she 
laughed  again  and  ran  gaily  humming  to  the  Hon. 
Rollo  Letham  in  the  garden. 


II 

Mr.  Pemberton,  on  arrival,  proved  incapable  of  much 
of  that  running  about,  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  term,  that 
Lady  Burdon  had  pronounced  to  be  his  place. 

"Here  he  is!"  Lady  Burdon  said,  watching  through 
the  drawing-room  window  from  where  she  sat,  as  a 
closed  station-fly  drew  up  before  the  gate.  "Here  he 
is  ! "  There  was  a  longish  pause  before  the  cab  door 
opened,  and  then  a  walking-stick  came  out  and  tapped 
about  in  a  fumbling  sort  of  way  until  it  hit  the  step.  A 
very  thin  leg  came  groping  down  the  stick,  its  foot  poking 
about  nervously  as  though  to  make  sure  that  the  step  was 
stable.  "Good  gracious  I"  Lady  Burdon  exclaimed. 
"The  poor  old  man  !" 

She  forgot  the  high  and  haughty  stare  premeditated 
for  the  interview,  and  she  crossed  to  the  window,  worn- 


44  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

anly  and  womanishly  alarmed.  The  knee  above  the 
trembling  leg  took  a  jerky  shot  or  two  at  stiffening,  then 
stiffened  suddenly  and  took  the  weight  of  a  little  wisp  of 
an  old  man,  who  swung  suddenly  out  upon  it,  whirled 
half  around  as  the  gusty  breeze  took  him  and,  clutching 
frantically  against  the  side  of  the  cab  with  one  hand,  with 
the  other  made  agitated  prods  of  his  stick  at  the  road 
desperately  far  beneath. 

"Oh,  goodness  I"  Lady  Burdon  cried.  "He'll  kill 
himself  !  And  that  idiot  Hke  a  frozen  pig  on  the  box  ! 
Maurice  !"  But  she  was  quicker  than  her  husband  and, 
the  high  and  haughty  stare  completely  abandoned,  was 
swiftly  from  the  room,  down  the  path,  through  the  gate, 
and  with  firm  young  hands  under  a  shaky  old  arm,  just 
as  the  little  old  man,  unable  to  balance  longer,  was  drop- 
ping stick  and  leg  towards  the  ground  and  in  danger 
of  collapsing  tremendously  upon  them. 

She  landed  him  safe.  "The  road  slopes  so  frightfully 
here,  doesn't  it?"  she  said,  "I  am  afraid  you  are 
shaken." 

The  little  old  man,  very  visibly  shaken  by  the  fearful 
adventure,  essayed  to  straighten  his  bent  old  frame.  He 
raised  his  silk  hat  and  stood  bareheaded  before  her. 
"You  saved  me  from  that,"  he  said.  "It  was  very, 
very  kind  of  you.  I  am  clumsy  and  stupid  at  moving 
about." 

She  was  flushed  by  her  run,  the  breeze  was  in  her  hair ; 
she  looked  pretty  and  she  was  quite  natural.  "Oh,  I 
saw  you,"  she  smiled.  "I  ought  to  have  come  before. 
Let  me  take  your  arm.  The  path  is  steep ;  we  are  on  the 
side  of  a  hill,  as  you  see." 

She  swung  open  the  gate  with  one  hand  and  put  the 
other  beneath  his  arm. 

He  seemed  to  hesitate,  looking  at  her  curiously.     "Oh, 


MISREADING  A  PEERESS  45 

I  am  all  right  when  I  am  on  my  legs,"  he  said,  with  a  little 
laugh.  "Well,  well  —  it  is  very,  very  kind  of  you,"  and 
he  accepted  the  aid  she  offered. 

"It  is  steep,  you  see,"  —  she  smiled  down  at  him,  — 
"and  rough.  It  ought  to  be  r'^Ued,  but  we  have  the 
idlest  gardener  boy  in  the  world.  You  are  Mr.  Pember- 
ton,  aren't  you  ?     I  am  —  I  am  Lady  Burdon." 

He  halted  in  his  nice  little  steps  and  looked  full  up  at 
her.  "I  am  very  glad  to  know  that,"  he  said  simply, 
and  put  himself  again  to  the  task  of  making  the  house. 

Ill 

Mr.  Pemberton  was  more  than  pleased;  he  was  in- 
tensely reheved  and  intensely  happy.  His  thoughts,  as 
he  came  down  in  the  train  to  Miller's  Field,  had  caused 
his  face  to  wear  a  nervous,  a  wistful,  almost  an  appeahng, 
look.  Bound  up  in  inherited  devotion  to  the  noble 
house  whose  service  was  handed  down  in  his  firm  as  the 
title  itself  was  handed  down,  he  had  feared,  he  had 
dreaded  what  manner  of  people  the  tragic  break  in  the 
famous  direct  succession  might  have  brought  to  the  name 
he  loved.  Nothing  could  so  well  have  reassured  him  as 
that  most  womanly  action  of  Lady  Burdon  when  she 
ran  to  his  assistance  at  the  gate ;  nothing  could  so  well 
have  affirmed  the  confidence  with  which  he  turned  to  her 
husband,  come  to  the  door  to  meet  them,  as  the  simple 
honesty  of  character  imprinted  on  Lord  Burdon's  face 
and  expressed  in  his  greeting.  Both  impressions  were 
sharpened  as  they  sat  talking  at  tea.  Mr.  Pemberton 
had  come  to  talk  business;  he  found  himself  drawn  by 
this  sympathetic  atmosphere  into  speaking  intimately  of 
the  gay  young  life  whose  cruel  termination  had  caused 
his  visit. 


46  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Clearly  he  had  been  deeply  attached  to  that  young 
life ;  he  speaks  of  it  in  the  jerky,  disconnected  sentences 
of  one  that  does  not  trust  his  voice  too  long,  for  fear  it 
may  betray  him;  and  when  he  comes  to  his  subject's 
young  raanJiood,  after  eulogy  of  childhood  and  youth, 
clearly  Lady  Burdon  is  interested.  She  draws  her  chair 
a  trifle  towards  him,  and  with  her  elbow  on  the  low  tea- 
table,  cups  her  chin  in  the  palm  of  her  hand,  the  fingers 
against  her  lips,  watches  him  and  attends  him  closely. 
Her  throat  and  face  are  dusky,  her  wrist  and  hand  are 
white  against  them.  Her  eyes  have  a  deep  and  kind 
look.     She  makes  a  gentle  picture. 

Encouraged  by  her  sympathy,  "He  was  a  Httle  wild," 
says  Mr.  Pemberton.  "I  am  afraid  a  little  incHned  to  be 
wild.  .  .  .  Always  so  full  of  spirits,  you  see  .  .  .  eager 
.  .  .  careless,    reckless  perhaps,  impetuous  .  .  .  lovable 

—  ah,  me,  very  lovable.  .  .  . 

"I  was  very  fond  of  him.  Lady  Burdon,"  he  says 
apologetically,  "very  fond;"  and  he  stumbles  into  an 
example  of  what  he  is  pleased  to  call  the  young  man's 
impetuous  carelessness.  It  is  of  his  last  months  in  Eng- 
land, before  he  sailed  for  India,  that  this  deals.  Between 
June  and  August,  having  leave  from  his  regiment,  he 
disappeared,  it  seems ;  was  completely  lost  sight  of  by 
his  grandmother  and  his  friends.  Towards  the  end  of 
August  he  appeared  again.  "Not  himself  —  not  quite 
himself,"  says  Mr.  Pemberton,  shaking  his  head  as 
though  over  some  recollection  that  troubled  him,  "and 
no  explanation  of  his  absence,  and,  when  the  chance 
came  —  General  Sheringham  was  a  relation,  you  know 

—  wild  to  get  out  to  this  frontier  'show,'  as  he  called 
it. 

"Typical  of  him,"  says  Mr.  Pemberton  after  a  pause, 
and  smiUng  sadly  at  Lady  Burdon.     "Topical.    A  law 


MISREADING  A  PEERESS  47 

to  himself  he  would  always  be,  and  not  responsible  to  any 
one  for  what  he  chose  to  do.  A  Burdon  trait  that ;  and 
he  was  a  Burdon  of  Burdons." 

Lady  Burdon  asks  a  question,  breaking  into  Mr. 
Pemberton's  history  for  the  first  time.  "But  that  really 
is  extraordinary,  Mr.  Pemberton,"  she  says.  "Wouldn't 
Lady  Burdon  —  wouldn't  his  grandmother  —  have  felt 
anxious  during  that  disappearance,  and  wouldn't  she 
have  questioned  him  when  he  came  back?" 

"Not  unless  he  seemed  disposed  to  tell  her.  In  a 
way  —  in  a  way,  you  know,  relations  between  them  were 
a  Httle  difficult.  Poor  boy" — and  Mr.  Pemberton 
gives  a  sad  Httle  laugh  —  "poor  boy,  he  often  came  to  me 
in  a  great  way,  and  her  ladyship,  too,  has  had  occasion. 
He,  on  his  side,  passionately  devoted  to  her,  hating  to  hurt 
her,  but  enormously  high-spirited,  difficult  to  handle. 
And  she,  on  hers,  making  all  the  world  of  him  and  a  Uttle 
apt  on  that  account  to  claim  too  much  from  him,  if  you 
follow  me.  He  sometimes  chafed  —  chafed,  you  know ; 
hating  to  hurt  her  but  restless  of  her  control,  her  claim. 
Latterly  she  had  to  be  very  tactful  with  him.  No,  she 
wouldn't  have  questioned  him  unless  he  seemed  disposed 
to  tell  her." 

They  are  interrupted  here  by  the  entrance  of  baby 
Rollo  on  his  way  to  bed,  for  it  is  getting  late.  "The 
rummiest  little  beggar,"  says  Lord  Burdon,  introducing 
his  small  son.  "Not  much  more  than  eighteen  months, 
and  solemn  enough  for  an  archbishop,  aren't  you,  Rollo  ? ' ' 

The  solemn  one,  pale  and  noticeably  quiet  and  far  from 
strong  looking,  justifies  this  character  by  having  no 
smiles,  though  Mr.  Pemberton  greets  him  cheerfully  and 
says  approvingly:  "Rollo,  eh?  The  Burdon  name. 
His  name,"  he  adds,  and  looks  at  Lady  Burdon,  who 
gives  him  a  gentle  smile  of  understanding. 


48  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

IV 

Mr.  Pemberton  looked  after  her  very  gratefully  when 
she  excused  herself  to  take  the  child  up-stairs.  The  door 
closed,  he  turned  to  Lord  Burdon.  "  Nice — nice,"  he  be- 
gan in  a  stifled  kind  of  voice,  "  to  have  a  httle  son  growing 
up — to  watch.  We  watched  young  Lord  Burdon — that 
poor  boy — growing  up — anxiously — so  anxiously.  .  .  ." 

He  gave  a  nervous  httle  laugh.  "When  I  say  'we'  — 
you've  no  idea  with  what  a  terrible  air  of  proprietorship 
the  family  is  regarded  by  those,  like  myself,  attached  to 
it  for  generations,  by  those  dependent  on  it.  We  looked 
so  eagerly,  so  eagerly  as  the  time  drew  on,  to  his  coming 
of  age.     He  was  wanted  so." 

"Wanted ? "  Lord  Burdon  asked.  " Wanted ? "  He 
pronounced  the  word  heavily,  as  though  he  had  an  inkhng 
of  the  answer  and  was  apprehensive. 

It  started  Mr.  Pemberton  on  a  recital  that  he  spoke 
with  seeming  difficulty  and  yet  as  though  he  had  pre- 
pared it.  It  occupied  longer  than  either  knew,  and  Lord 
Burdon,  before  it  was  finished,  was  sitting  sunk  low  in  his 
chair,  as  though  what  he  heard  oppressed  him.  The 
Uttle  old  lawyer  spoke  of  difficulties  in  connection  with 
the  estate ;  the  diminished  rent  roll ;  the  urgent  necessity 
for  comprehensive  improvements  essential  to  make  the 
land  pay  its  way ;  the  long-urged  necessity  for  the  sale  of 
Burdon  House  in  Mount  Street,  heavily  mortgaged  and 
the  interest  an  insupportable  drain  on  the  estate.  It  led 
him  to  why  they  had  looked  so  anxiously  for  the  coming 
of  age.  Everything  that  was  essential  was  impossible, 
he  showed,  in  the  reign  of  gentle  Jane  Lady  Burdon, 
who  felt  that  she  held  in  sacred  trust  for  her  grandson  and 
would  suffer  no  risks  in  raising  of  loans,  nor  depredation 
of  her  charge  by  sale  of  the  town  property.     He  had  no 


MISREADING  A   PEERESS  49 

eloquence,  this  devoted  little  lawyer,  but  he  had  earnest- 
ness that  seemed  to  him  who  Kstened  to  fill  the  room,  as 
it  were,  with  living  shapes  of  duties,  demands,  traditions 
of  a  great  heritage  that  marshalled  before  him  and  looked 
to  him  to  be  carried  forward,  as  soldiers  to  a  leader. 

A  change  in  Mr.  Pemberton's  tone  aroused  him. 

"He  was  wanted  so,"  Mr.  Pemberton  said  jerkily,  and 
stopped. 

No  response,  and  in  a  funny  httle  cracked  voice, 
"Well,  he's  dead,"  Mr.  Pemberton  said. 

Lord  Burdon  raised  his  eyes,  contracted  with  the 
trouble  that  had  given  him  that  drooped,  oppressed  ap- 
pearance while  the  other  spoke,  dim,  clouded  as  with 
looking  at  something  that  menaced;  and  their  eyes 
met  —  two  very  simple  men. 

Mr.  Pemberton  stretched  out  fumbling  hands.  He 
cried  blunderingly  and  appealingly,  his  mouth  twisting : 
"It  has  affected  me  —  this  death,  this  change.  I  am 
only  an  old  man  —  a  devoted  old  man.  As  we  looked 
to  him,  so  now  we  look  to  you." 

"Look  to  me  !"  Lord  Burdon  said  slowly.  "Look  to 
me!  Good  God,  Pemberton,  I  funk  it!"  he  cried. 
"I  funk  it  and  I  hate  it.  I'm  not  the  sort.  I  wish  I'd 
been  left  alone.     I  wish  to  God  I  had  !" 

There  followed  his  words  a  silence  of  the  intense  nature 
caused  by  speech  that  has  been  intense.  In  that  silence, 
consciousness  of  some  other  personality  in  the  room 
caused  Mr.  Pemberton  to  turn  suddenly  in  his  chair. 
He  turned  to  see  Lady  Burdon  standing  in  the  door- 
way. She  was  not  in  the  act  of  entering.  She  was 
standing  there;  and  for  the  briefest  space,  while  Mr. 
Pemberton  looked  at  her  and  she  at  him,  she  just  stood, 
erect,  her  head  a  trifle  unduly  high,  with  estimating  eyes 
and  with  purposed  mouth. 


50  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

V 

It  had  been  an  anxious  Mr.  Pemberton  that  came 
down  to  Miller's  Field.  It  was  a  reassured  Mr.  Pember- 
ton that  stayed  there,  but  a  gravely  disturbed  Mr.  Pem- 
berton that  went  back  to  town.  He  knew  Lady  Burdon 
had  been  listening,  the  look  he  had  seen  on  her  face  in- 
formed him  of  her  displeasure  with  what  she  had  heard, 
and  he  knew  that  in  his  first  estimate  of  her  he  had  mis- 
read her. 

For  he  read  her  look  aright.  In  her  husband's  cry  — • 
his  weak,  contemptible  cry  — •  in  what  she  had  heard  of 
the  Httle  lawyer's  statements  and  proposals  —  his  tears 
and  prayers  of  duties  —  she  knew  hostiUty  to  her  plans, 
to  her  dreams,  to  her  pleasures.  Her  estimating  eyes 
that  met  Mr.  Pemberton's  inquired  the  strength  of  that 
hostihty ;  her  purposed  mouth  was  the  mirror  of  her  de- 
termination against  it. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MISCALCULATING    A   PEER 


The  little  clock  that  is  perched  high  over  the  vast  fire- 
place in  the  Ubrary  at  Burdon  House,  Mount  Street, 
marks  a  shade  before  ten  of  the  evening.  Its  delicate 
ticking  joins  with  the  fluttering  of  the  flames,  and  with 
the  steady  scratch  of  Mr.  Librarian  Amber's  pen,  to 
make  the  only  sounds  in  this  dignified  apartment  with 
its  high-bred  air,  that  has  known  many  a  Burdon  and  that 
shortly  is  to  acknowledge  another  bearer  of  the  title  and 
serenely  give  farewell  to  the  lady  seated  before  the  fire. 

A  gracious  lady  of  many  sorrows,  as  the  Vicar  of  Little 
Letham  parish,  in  a  surprising  fhght,  had  named  Jane 
Lady  Burdon  on  the  previous  Sunday  —  and  rightly 
named  her.  Sorrow  has  companioned  Jane  Lady  Bur- 
don before;  now  again  is  called  whence  it  has  lightly 
slumbered  —  walks  hand  in  hand  with  the  gentle  lady, 
is  her  bedfellow,  crouches  on  the  hearth  beside  her  as 
she  sits,  drooping  sHghtly,  in  the  high-backed  chair, 
fingers  enlocked  on  lap,  eyes  dimly  upon  the  flames. 

Lord  Burdon,  who  has  stepped  into  the  dead  boy's 
shoes  —  (Ah,  Sorrow,  walk  here  and  here  with  me. 
Look,  Sorrow,  where  he  used  to  sport  and  run  !)  —  has 
paid  his  visit  that  afternoon ;  sympathetic  little  Mr. 
Pemberton,  with  his  papers  and  documents,  has  occupied 
a  part  of  her  morning.  It  has  been  a  trying  day  for  her. 
Her  only  desire  now  is  to  be  left  alone  with  her  thoughts. 

51 


52  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

(Come  away,  come  away,  Sorrow,  Sorrow ;  and  hold  me 
close,  and  open  me  his  prattling  lips,  his  strong  young 
lips.) 

n 

Mr.  Librarian  Amber  —  very  conscious  of  Sorrow 
crouching  there,  but  busy,  busy  —  is  writing  at  a  table 
behind  the  drooping  figure  in  the  high-backed  chair. 
The  bald  top  of  Mr.  Amber's  narrow  head,  nose  hard 
after  his  pen  like  a  diligent  bloodhound  on  a  slow  scent, 
shines  between  the  splendid  yellow  candles  in  their  tall, 
silver  holders  that  hght  his  work.  Neat  little  packets  of 
papers,  neatly  arranged,  dot  the  poKshed  surface  of  the 
table,  like  islands  set  in  a  still,  dark  sea  about  the  greater 
island  that  is  Mr.  Amber's  manuscript.  On  a  chair  by 
Mr.  Amber's  side  is  a  large,  shm  volume  held  by  a  gilt 
clasp  and  lettered  on  its  cover  of  white  vellum : 

Percival   Rollo   Redpath  Letham 
Xllth   Baron   Burdon 

He  is  engaged,  Mr.  Librarian  Amber,  on  that  "Lives 
of  the  Barons  Burdon  "  of  which  Lord  Burdon  had  spoken 
to  his  wife,  walking  in  the  garden  of  Hillside. 

Then  that  little  clock  perched  over  the  mantelpiece 
tinkles  the  hour  of  ten. 

"How  do  you  progress,  Mr.  Amber?"  Jane  Lady 
Burdon  inquires  gently. 

Mr.  Amber  —  constitutionally  nervous  —  starts,  drops 
his  pen,  grabs  at  it  as  it  rolls  for  the  floor,  misses  it  in  the 
stress  of  a  short-sighted  fumble,  makes  a  distressed  Tch- 
tch!  as  it  rattles  to  the  boards,  clears  his  throat,  starts 
on  one  reply  and,  in  the  manner  of  nervous  persons  sud- 
denly interrogated,  strangles  it  at  birth  and  has  a  shot  at 
fortune  with  another. 


MISCALCULATING  A  PEER  53 

"I  have  almost  got  —  I  am  just  concluding  the  news- 
paper reports  of  the  fight,  my  lady.  Very  nearly  at  the 
end."  He  recollects  a  resolve  to  be  bright  in  order  to 
cheer  my  lady,  so  he  adds  with  a  funny  Httle  pop  :  "Al- 
most done  !"  and  then  with  a  brisk  Httle  puff  blows  im- 
aginary dust  from  his  manuscript.  "Almost  done  I 
Hoof!'' 

"  I  will  read  it  over  to-morrow,  Mr.  Amber,  immedi- 
ately after  breakfast.  To-day  is  Friday.  By  Monday 
you  should  have  finished,  I  think,  and  the  book  will  be 
ready  to  go  into  its  place  at  the  Manor.  You  will  come 
with  me  when  1  go  down  there  next  week,  Mr.  Amber,  and 
we  will  put  it  in  its  place  together.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
it  in  its  place  before  I  leave  :  all  the  Lives  finished  —  our 
little  hobby,  Mr.  Amber;"  and  her  gracious  ladyship  of 
many  sorrows  puts  into  the  words  the  smile  that  faintly 
touches  her  Ups. 

Mr.  Amber,  desperately  agitated  and  pleased  by  this 
coupling  of  himself  with  his  dear  mistress,  takes  from  the 
warmth  of  his  happiness  courage  sufficient  to  introduce 
to  her  a  matter  that  has  been  troubling  him.  He  gets 
awkwardly  to  his  feet,  a  spare,  stooping  figure,  mild  of 
face,  Httle  over  fifty  but  looking  more,  frowns  horribly  at 
his  chair  for  the  noise  it  makes  upon  the  polished  floor  as 
he  pushes  it  back,  and  comes  forward,  twisting  the  fingers 
of  his  hands  about  one  another. 

"My  lady — yes,  I  will  surely  finish  by  Monday.  Your 
ladyship  wiU  forgive  me  —  intruding  myself  —  your 
ladysliip  speaks  of  leaving  —  I  am  —  if  I  may  venture  — 
so  attached  —  I  scarcely — " 

He  is  quite  painfuUy  agitated.  His  fingers,  tightly 
locked  now  by  their  twistings,  present  a  figure  of  his 
halting  sentences  come  to  a  final  tangle,  an  ultimate  and 
hopeless  knot. 


54  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Her  gracious  ladyship  of  many  sorrows  smiles  in  her 
kind  way.  "Dear  Mr.  Amber,  you  should  know,  of 
course.  I  have  been  thoughtless  of  you  in  my  sorrow.  I 
am  going  to  my  sister  in  York,  Mr.  Amber  —  Mrs. 
Eresby,  you  remember.  Here  nor  the  Manor  is  no  longer 
my  home,  you  understand.  Indeed,  how  should  I  stay 
in  houses  of  sad  memories  only?" 

Mr.  Amber  murmurs  "Ah  —  my  lady  !"  and  she  con- 
tinues: "I  intend  a  last  visit  to  the  Manor  —  to  take 
leave  of  our  dear  friends,  Mr.  Amber,  and  to  collect  a  few 

—  memories.  I  would  go  now,  but  I  have  first  to  meet 
Lady  Burdon.  Lord  and  Lady  Burdon  will  very  kindly 
come  here  for  that  purpose  on  Monday  so  that  we  may 
know  one  another  for  a  few  days." 

She  pauses  and  smiles  inquiringly  as  though  to  ask  Mr. 
Amber  if  he  is  now  sufficiently  informed.  He  bhnks 
considerably,  starts  to  work  at  his  hands  again,  and  sud- 
denly says  with  a  mouth  all  twisted  :     "It  will  be  very 

—  strange  —  to  me  to  be  parted  from  your  ladyship." 
She  extends  a  gentle  hand  towards  his  that  twist  and 

twist,  touching  them  softly:  "Dear  Mr.  Amber.  It 
has  been  the  pleasantest  friendship," 

He  says  stupidly  and  brokenly,  "What  will  I  do?" 

"You  must  go  on  living  with  the  books,"  she  tells  him. 
"Why,  what  would  they  do  without  you,  or  you  without 
them  ?  I  will  speak  to  Lord  Burdon.  You  must  Hve  on 
just  the  same  in  the  Manor  library  where  we  have  been 
together  so  often  —  all  of  us.  I  shall  like  to  think  of 
you  there.     It  is  my  wish,  Mr.  Amber." 

She  says  gently,  "There ! " as  he  clutches  her  hand  to  his 
lips.  "I  will  go  to  bed  now.  I  think  I  hear  Golden 
coming  for  me,"  and  as  her  maid  enters,  she  rises. 

Mr.  Amber  tries  for  words.  That  twisting  mouth  for- 
bids them,  and  he  turns  to  hold  the  door  open. 


MISCALCULATING  A  PEER  55 

"Thank  you.  Good  night,  Mr.  Amber.  Here  is  our 
kind  Colden  so  thoughtful  for  my  sleep.  I  am  ready, 
Colden.  Yes,  I  will  take  your  arm.  Good  night,  Mr. 
Amber."  And  as  Mr.  Amber  stands  watching,  there 
comes  to  him  faintly  across  the  great  hall:  "We'll 
rest  a  moment  here,  Colden.  A  little  trying,  these  stairs. 
Do  you  remember  how  he  used  to  take  me  up  ?  He  never 
missed  a  night  when  he  was  home,  did  he  ?  Do  you  re- 
member how  he  made  us  laugh  about  this  seat  .  .  .  ?" 

Then  Mr.  Amber  returns  to  the  library,  closes  the  door 
and  eases  emotion  by  a  trumpet  blast  upon  his  nose. 

Ill 

Mr.  Amber  took  a  seat  before  the  fire.  He  was  un- 
settled, he  found,  for  further  progress  that  night  upon  the 
work  that  had  engaged  him  at  the  table.  But  his  mind 
turned  to  it  and  from  it  to  the  eleven  fine  volumes  into 
whose  company  it  would  go,  completing  the  lives  of  the 
Barons  Burdon  that  were  the  fruits  of  many  years  of  lov- 
ing labour  —  result  of  "  our  little  hobby."  In  memory 
he  trod  again  those  happy  days  —  saw  himself  installed 
librarian  at  Burdon  Old  Manor,  a  bookish  youth,  weak- 
backed,  weak-eyed,  son  and  despair  of  a  tenant  farmer ; 
rehearsed  again  that  youth's  aimless,  browsing  years 
among  the  books,  acquiring  strange  and  various  know- 
ledge from  the  shelves,  developing  affections,  habits, 
tastes  that,  as  with  tentacles,  anchored  him  by  heart  and 
mind  to  the  house  of  Burdon.  Mr.  Amber  moved  rest- 
lessly in  his  chair  and  came  to  the  beginning  of  the  great 
scheme,  propounded  by  her  gracious  ladyship,  that  was 
to  become  "our  little  hobby,"  as  immediately  it  became 
the  purpose  and  enthusiasm  of  his  life.  Well,  it  was  done 
—  or  almost  done.     The  results  of  desperately  exciting 


56  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

scratching  about  the  library  —  among  distressed  old 
books,  among  family  trees,  among  deeds,  letters,  parch- 
ments, rolls,  records  —  were  in  eleven  fine  manuscript 
volumes  —  only  the  twelfth  to  finish. 

A  leisurely  volume  this  twelfth,  now  lying  on  the  table 
behind  Mr.  Amber's  chair.  Written  up  during  its  sub- 
ject's short  life  —  dear  and  most  well-beloved  to  Mr. 
Amber  every  moment  of  it  —  the  volume  is  as  naturally 
detailed  as  some  of  the  earHer  volumes  are  naturally 
scrappy.  Pettily  detailed,  perhaps.  Mr.  Amber  starts 
with  the  precise  hour  and  moment  —  6  :  15I  a.m.  —  of 
the  birth  of  the  Hon.  Rollo  Percival  Redpath  Letham ; 
notes  his  colouring  —  fair ;  his  weight  at  successive  in- 
fantile months  —  lusty  beyond  the  average,  it  would  ap- 
pear; date  of  his  first  articulate  speech;  date  of  first 
stumbling  run  across  the  nursery  floor  —  and  suchlike 
small  beer.  His  father's  death  is  chronicled  ("  cf .  vol.  XI, 
pp.  196  et  seq.")  and  he  is  shown  to  be  yet  in  his  third 
year  when  he  becomes  twelfth  Baron  Burdon.  .  .  .  Date 
of  measles.  .  .  .  Date  of  whooping  cough.  .  .  .  First 
riding  lesson.  ...  Preparatory  school.  .  .  .  First  hoh- 
days.  .  .  .  First  shooting  lesson.  .  .  .  Puts  a  charge  of 
shot  into  a  keeper.  It  is  all  very  closely  detailed.  It  is 
detailed  so  closely  that  a  gap  towards  the  end  is  made 
conspicuous :  and  this  is  precisely  that  gap  occupied  by 
the  "disappearance"  of  which  Mr.  Pemberton  had  spoken 
in  the  drawing-room  at  Hillside.  The  chronicle,  that  is 
to  say,  is  brought  very  fully  up  to  the  May  in  which,  as 
it  shows,  my  lord  suddenly  went  down  to  Burdon  Old 
Manor  from  London,  his  grandmother  being  at  Mount 
Street,  and  thence  for  a  long  hoUday.  It  Jumps  to  Octo- 
ber and  at  once  begins  again  to  be  remarkably  detailed, 
"Our  Own  Correspondent's"  account  of  the  frontier 
engagement  waiting  on  the  table  there  to  conclude  it. 


MISCALCULATING  A  PEER  57 

But  of  this  May  to  October  period,  covering  the  June  to 
August  of  which  Mr.  Pemberton  had  spoken,  Mr.  Amber, 
like  Mr.  Pemberton,  for  the  good  reason  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  how  my  lord  occupied  it,  has  nothing  to  say. 
Let  it  be  said.  My  lord  was  in  that  June  secretly 
married  in  London :  a  matter  closely  germane  to  this 
history,  and  now  to  be  examined. 


BOOK  TWO 

A  BOOK  OF  THE  SAME  SIZE,  ILLUSTRATING  THE 
ELEMENT  OF  FOLLY 


BOOK  TWO 

\  BOOK  OF  THE  SAME  SIZE,  ILLUSTRATING  THE 
ELEMENT  OF  FOLLY 

CHAPTER  I 

LOVE  TRIMS   wreckers'   LAMPS 


On  a  May  morning,  then,  love  in  his  heart,  pur- 
pose in  his  eye,  gathering  in  his  careless  hand  the  meshes 
that  he  is  goir.g  to  tug,  shaking  the  unconsidered  Hves 
they  bind  —  Rollo  Percival  Redpath  Letham,  twelfth 
Baron  Burdon,  "  Roly "  to  his  gay  young  comrades  of 
the  clubs  and  messes,  was  set  down  at  Great  Letham 
by  the  express  from  London. 

Great  Letham  marks  the  nearest  approach  of  the 
railway  to  the  sequestered  villages  that  touch  their 
hats  to  the  Burdon  Old  Manor  folk.  It  stands  at  the 
head  of  a  country  that  rolls  away  on  either  hand  in 
down  and  valley.  Roughly,  Great  Letham  centres 
the  high  lands  that  bound  this  prospect  on  its  nearer  side, 
and  from  its  outskirts  there  strikes  away  a  great  shoulder 
of  down  that  thrusts  Hke  a  massive  viaduct  straight 
and  far  to  join  the  further  hills.  From  a  distance  this 
natural  viaduct  admits  to  minds  however  stubbornly 
practical  the  similitude  of  a  giant's  arm.  Rugged  and 
brown  and  scarred  it  Hes,  not  green  in  greenest  summer ; 
and  the  humped  shoulder  whence  it  springs,  and  the 
great  mounds  in  which  it  swells  along  its  path,  present 

6x 


62  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

it  as  a  mighty  Kmb  out-thrust  to  hold  away  the  hills 
in  which  its  fist  is  buried.  Plowman's  Ridge,  they  call 
it;  and  afoot  upon  it,  it  is  kinder  of  aspect.  Aloof, 
aloft,  alone,  the  wayfarer  stands  here,  and  breathes  or 
breasts  the  ceaseless  wind  that  saunters  or  like  a  live 
thing  thunders  down  its  track ;  and  has  on  either  hand 
a  spreading  valley,  whence  curls  the  smoke  of  scattered 
hamlets,  uprise  the  spires,  come  the  faint  sounds  of 
creature  life  and  gleam  the  fields,  as  spread  upon  a  pal- 
ette, coloured  in  obedience  to  this  and  that  design  of 
husbandry. 

The  railway  skirts  the  eastward  vale ;  along  the  tran- 
quil westward  slope  the  Burdon  hamlets  sleep.  Viewed 
from  the  Ridge,  they  are  ridiculously  ahke ;  ridiculously 
equidistant  one  from  the  next ;  ridiculously  tethered, 
as  it  were,  along  the  foot  of  the  Ridge  —  Hke  boats 
along  a  shore ;  ridiculously  small  to  have  separate  names, 
but  named  in  their  order  outwards  from  Great  Letham : 
Market  Roding  and  Abbess  Roding  and  Nimford  — • 
linked  by  those  names  with  the  monastic  ruins  at  Up- 
abbot  in  the  eastward  vale;  Shepwell  and  Burdon  and 
Little  Letham.  They  are  tethered  to  the  Ridge,  and 
the  Ridge  is  the  most  direct  communication  between 
them.  Visitors  from  village  to  village,  or  from  Great 
Letham  to  any,  climb  the  slope  and  use  the  Ridge,  rather 
than  plod  the  winding  roads  that,  as  twelfth  Baron  Bur- 
don has  often  declared,  "take  you  about  two  miles  from 
where  you  want  to  get  before  they  let  you  loose  to  go 
there." 

He  struck  out  along  the  Ridge  now. 

Burdon  village  was  his  destination ;  and  as  he  pressed 
his  way  towards  it,  putting  up  his  face  to  snuff  the  famil- 
iar wind,  speeding  ahead  his  thoughts  to  what  he  came 
to  seek,  twelfth  Baron  Burdon  showed  himself  a  very 


LOVE  TRIMS  WRECKERS' LAMPS         63 

personable  young  man.  His  tawny  hair  he  wore  closely 
cropped  about  his  strong  young  head ;  beneath  a  straight 
nose  he  grew  a  little  clump  of  fair  moustache  shaved 
bluntly  away  at  the  corners  of  a  firm  mouth.  At  a  bold 
right-angle  his  jaw  came  cleanly  from  his  throat;  and 
his  chin  was  thick  and  round,  matching  his  open  grey 
eyes  to  advertise  purpose  and  command.  A  Burdon  of 
Burdons  Mr.  Pemberton  had  named  him.  A  high- 
spirited  young  man,  vigorous,  alert;  very  boyish  in 
mind,  very  dominant  of  character.  A  Burdon  of  Bur- 
dons. Through  a  long  line  the  bone  of  whose  quality 
was  their  "I  hold!"  twelfth  Baron  Burdon  inherited 
a  spirit  that,  when  crossed,  was  quick  to  be  unsheathed 
as  from  their  scabbards  the  eager  swords  of  remote  an- 
cestors were  quick,  —  dangerous  as  they.  "Enormously 
high-spirited,  difficult  to  handle,"  Mr.  Pemberton  had 
told  new  Lady  Burdon.  It  was  handling  he  could  not 
brook.  The  Hghtest  feel  of  the  curb  threw  up  his  head 
as  the  fine-tempered  colt's.  Brow  and  Hps  would  as- 
sume signs  that  spoke,  even  to  one  unacquainted  with 
him,  the  imperious  resolve  of  mastery. 
He  was  in  pursuit  of  mastery  now. 

II 

As  he  came  abreast  of  Burdon  he  edged  down  the 
Ridge,  making  towards  a  little  copse  that  ran  up  from 
a  garden  behind  the  last  cottage  in  the  village  street, 
the  nearest  to  Little  Letham.  In  the  roadway  this 
cottage  displayed,  suspended  from  its  porch,  the  notice, 
painted  in  white  letters  on  a  black  board : 

POST  OFFIC 

(The  painter  had  misjudged  the  space  at  his  disposal 
but  had  added  the  missing  E  on  the  back  of  the  board, 


64  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Case,"  as  he  explained,  "unnybody  be  that  dense  as 
to  turn  her  round  to  see  what  her  do  mean.") 

The  cottage  served  in  those  days  for  the  reception  and 
distribution  of  all  the  letters  of  the  westward  vale,  a 
community  little  bothered  with  correspondence;  and 
"  Post  Offic "  was  conducted  by  a  shght  Httle  woman 
whom  some  called  Postmum,  some  Miss  Oxford.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  former  vicar  of  Little  Letham; 
to  twelfth  Baron  Burdon  she  was  Audrey's  sister. 

Deep  in  the  trees,  as  he  approached  the  copse,  the 
sharp  white  of  a  skirt  caught  his  eager  eye.  Taking  a 
grassy  path,  he  went  noiselessly  down  and  presently 
was  separated  from  liis  Audrey  by  the  dense  thorn  that 
hedged  the  tiny  glade  in  which  he  found  her.  A  basket 
of  young  fern  roots  was  beside  her  and  she  was  stooped, 
her  back  towards  him,  exploring  in  the  undergrowth. 

He  thought  to  steal  up  to  her,  and  tried.  The  dense 
thorn  locked  him,  and  she  heard  him  and  turned  swiftly 
towards  him. 

She  was  flushed  with  her  stooping.  Now  a  deepe.- 
flush  rose  beneath  her  colour,  sinking  it  in  a  warmer 
glow  that  stained  her  exquisitely  from  throat  to  brow. 
The  dark  violet's  shade  was  in  her  eyes ;  when  her  colour 
abated,  the  pale  rose's  delicacy  might  have  been  shamed 
against  the  fairness  of  her  skin.  She  wore  no  hat ;  her 
soft  brown  locks  unruled  the  ribbon  at  her  neck,  and  the 
breeze  stirred  her  hair  in  Uttle  waves  about  her  temples. 
Her  arms  were  bare  where  she  had  thrust  her  sleeves 
beneath  her  elbows.  She  stood  poised,  as  one  might 
say,  upon  the  feet  of  surprise ;  and  her  lips  were  sUghtly 
parted,  her  gentle  bosom  seeming  to  hold  her  breath 
as  though  she  feared  the  smallest  sigh  would  waft  away 
the  sudden  gladness  that  had  caught  it. 

She  just  whispered,  "Roly  !" 


LOVE  TRIMS  WRECKERS' LAMPS  65 

"I'm  caught  in  this  da  —  infernal  bush,"  Roly  cried, 
struggling. 

"I  wasn't  to  expect  you  for  a  week,  you  wrote." 

He  began  to  writhe  and  wrench.  "You  needn't. 
I  shall  stay  here  forever,  I  beHeve." 

She  gave  the  merriest  laugh :   "You're  simply  fixed  !" 

"Wait  till  I  get  at  you!"  He  tried  and  was  more 
firmly  held.  "I  say,  what  the  dickens  has  happened  to 
me?" 

She  put  her  hands  together,  enjoying  his  plight  as  a 
child  that  bends  forward  at  a  play.  "You'll  never  get 
through  there,  Roly.     You'll  have  to  go  back." 

He  wrenched  and  struggled:  "Go  back!  There's 
a  great  spike  or  something  sticking  into  me  ! " 

His  struggles  broke  a  network  of  branches  at  his 
waist.  A  thorny  bough  sprang  loose  and  whipped 
beneath  his  chin,  forcing  up  his  head. 

"Good  Lord!  Look  here,  Audrey,  I  shall  cut  my 
throat  and  bleed  to  death;  or  this  dashed  spike  will 
come  slick  through  my  back  in  a  minute  and  impale 
me!" 

"Roly  !    If  you  knew  how  funny  you  look  !" 

Her  tone,  the  way  in  which  (as  it  presented  itself  to 
him)  she  "squirmed"  with  childlike  glee,  caused  him  to 
laugh  the  jolliest  laugh.  No  quaHty  of  hers  attracted 
him  as  this  fresh  and  innocent  and  childhke  happiness 
that  was  her  first  characteristic;  in  none  he  found  so 
great  delight  as  in  the  fount  of  innocence  through  whose 
fresh  stream  came  all  her  thoughts  and  words  Hke  young 
things  at  play. 

He  laughed  the  jolliest  laugh:  "Well,  I've  not  come 
all  the  way  from  town  just  to  look  funny.  I  tell  you, 
it's  serious.  I've  never  imagined  such  a  fix.  I'm  dashed 
if  I  can  move  a  finger  now.    Audrey,  if  you've  got  a 


66  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

woman's  heart  that  feels,  you'll  help  me  out.  This  in- 
fernal thing  under  my  chin  —  just  move  that  and  I'll 
show  you  how  we  fight  in  the  dear  old  regiment  — • 
Damn!" 

"Oh,  it  has  cut  you  !"  she  cried,  all  concern  as  a  mo- 
ment before  she  had  been  all  glee. 

A  step  brought  her  face  within  a  hand  of  his.  She 
found  place  for  her  fingers  between  the  thorns  of  the 
bramble  beneath  his  chin.  She  drew  the  branch  down- 
wards, and  the  action  caused  her  to  bend  towards  him 
until  their  brows  and  eyes  and  lips  were  level.  She 
looked  directly  into  his  eyes  and  he  directly  into  hers ; 
and  each  read  there  those  dear  and  ardent  mysteries 
that  love  far  better  images  than  ever  love  can  voice. 

He  no  more  than  breathed,  "Kiss  me,  Audrey." 

She  waited  for  the  smallest  part  of  a  moment.  En- 
tranced, enthralled,  they  only  heard  a  lark  that  was  a 
speck  above  them  send  down  a  tiny  melody,  and  far 
upon  the  down  a  sheep-bell's  distant  note.  Love's 
thralldom  and  Love's  music  to  his  thrall.  The  oldest 
play  that  mortals  play ;  and  never  know  befooled  were 
often  meeter  than  enthralled,  nor  better  an  ass  to  bray 
than  soxne  hymn  seem  to  rise  in  benison.  She  kissed 
him  tenderly  upon  the  lips ;  gave  the  smallest  sigh  and 
breathed,  "Dear  Roly  !" 

Comic  were  the  word  for  such  a  thing. 


m 

Comic,  and  comic  that  which  followed  when  he,  re- 
leased, was  with  her  in  the  glade  and,  seated  by  her, 
took  her  hands  and  bent  her  to  his  purpose. 

"Now,  listen  to  me,  Audrey.  Put  both  your  hands 
in  mine." 


LOVE  TRIMS  WRECKERS' LAMPS         67 

She  responded  as  he  bade  her,  performing  surely  the 
most  beautiful  action  in  the  world  as  she  gave  her  hands 
to  his.  All  human  Hfe  has  no  act  more  beautiful  than 
the  weaker  hand  confided  to  the  stronger,  nor  any  nearer 
Godhood  than  when  strong  hand  takes  the  weak. 

He  enclosed  her  hands  within  his  own.  "Listen  to  me, 
Audrey,"  he  repeated;  and,  as  her  hands  had  been  her 
spirit,  he  possessed  and  drew  her  spirit  on. 

Yet  comic  is  the  word :  for  here  —  he  planning,  she 
agreeing  —  they  made  the  plans  they  thought  should 
make  all  bliss,  all  happiness  their  own;  here,  in  fact, 
trimmed  wreckers'  lamps  to  shipwreck  happy  lives. 
He  had  determined  upon  secret  marriage  with  her,  and 
had  determined  it  as  the  perfect  solution  of  difficulties 
whose  consideration  was  in  some  degree  creditable  to 
him.  For  as  he  told  himself,  and  told  his  Audrey  now, 
nothing  prevented  him  from  openly  declaring  his  in- 
tention of  contracting  a  marriage  that  would  cause  a 
breach  between  himself  and  his  grandmother;  nothing 
but  the  impossibihty  of  enduring  such  a  breach;  that 
was  unthinkable. 

**  Passionately  devoted  to  his  grandmother,"  Mr. 
Pemberton  had  told;  "and  she,  for  her  part,  making 
all  the  world  of  him."  It  was  precisely  this  uncommon 
devotion  between  him  and  his  dear  "Gran"  that  drove 
him  into  torment  of  perplexity  when  first  his  heart  in- 
formed him  hfe  without  Audrey  was  insupportable. 
With  utmost  content  he  had  surrendered  himself  into 
the  object  of  Gran's  adoring  pride  and,  as  such,  into  her 
control  of  her  dear  possession.  As  he  grew  older,  that 
control  had  sometimes  come  to  irk  a  httle.  "He  some- 
times chafed  —  chafed,  if  you  follow  me,"  Mr.  Pember- 
ton had  said.  But  the  quaUty  of  that  chafing  required 
better  understanding  than  even  Mr.  Pemberton  could 


68  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

give  it.  It  was  not  at  conflict  of  will  between  himseli 
and  Gran  that  Roly  chafed ;  he  knew  his  own  deter- 
mined character  well  enough  to  know  that  if  he  liked 
he  could  override  her  will  as  he  overrode  that  of  others 
who  thought  to  oppose  him.  Where  he  chafed  was 
where  his  devotion  to  her  pricked  him.  He  could  not 
bear  the  thought  of  giving  her  distress;  and  he  would 
sometimes  chafe  when  —  at  this,  at  that,  at  some  im- 
pulse or  boyish  fling  of  his  —  he  thought  her  distress 
unreasonable;  unreasonable  because  it  shackled  him 
unfairly ;  because  either  he  would  submit  to  it,  or,  tak- 
ing his  way,  would  sufi'er  greatly,  be  robbed  of  his  pleas- 
ure, at  thought  of  having  caused  it. 

But  always,  when  the  thing  was  over,  be  glaJ  he  had 
given  way  to  her  or  most  desperately  grieved  he  had 
pained  her.  He  knew  that  he  was  everything  to  her; 
how  hurt  her  then  ? 

With  such  the  measure  of  his  love  for  her,  such  the 
devotion  between  them,  and  such  that  devotion's  price, 
what  a  situation  was  presented  for  his  perplexity  when 
Audrey  came  to  occupy  his  heart  1  She  had  been  his 
playmate  in  his  childhood  at  Burdon  Old  Manor,  she  at 
the  Vicarage.  When  her  father  died,  Gran  had  expressed 
her  fondness  for  his  daughters  by  using  her  influence 
to  procure  the  estabhshment  of  a  post-office  at  Burdon 
and  persuading  the  elder  sister  to  conduct  it,  thus  keep- 
ing them,  as  she  had  said,  "near  us."  That  was  one 
thing;  a  head  of  the  house  of  Burdon's  marriage  into 
so  humble  a  degree  —  and  that  her  Roly  —  he  knew 
to  be  unthinkably  another.  She  had  great  plans  for 
great  alliance  for  him  —  at  some  future  date.  At  some 
future  date  !  At  her  great  age  and  at  his  extreme  youth 
she  could  scarcely  think  of  him  as  man  —  always  as 
boy.     It  was  one  of  the  tilings  that  sometimes  chafed 


LOVE  TRIMS  WRECKERS'   LAMPS         69 

him.  But  when,  as  had  happened,  the  subject  of  mar- 
riage came  up  between  them,  and  he  would  laugh  at 
her  immense  ideas  of  his  value,  she  would  always  end 
so  pathetically:  "But,  Roly,  how  shall  I  bear  any  one 
to  come  between  us  ?  " 

Rehearsing  it  all,  ''How  —  how  in  God's  name?" 
he  had  desperately  cried  to  himself,  "can  I  tell  her  of 
Audrey?"  She  whom  he  could  never  bear  to  distress 
—  how  give  her  this  vital  hurt  ?  She  from  whom  — ■ 
for  the  suffering  it  would  cause  her  —  he  could  never 
endure  to  be  parted,  how  deHberately  put  her  away? 
He  would  tell  her  his  intention;  how  endure  what  she 
would  say,  or  not  say  ?  He  would  carry  out  his  purpose 
and  she  would  leave  him  and  must  shortly  die ;  and  how 
endure  her  death  in  such  circumstances?  Or,  haply, 
he  would  prevail  on  her  to  stay  with  him ;  and  she, 
supplanted,  jealous  of  Audrey  and  gentle  Audrey  fear- 
ing her.     And  how  endure  that  ? 

No  —  to  create  such  a  breach  insupportable,  and 
insupportable  Hfe  without  Audrey.     What  then? 

It  came  to  him  as  complete  solution,  and  as  complete 
solution  he  pressed  it  now  on  Audrey,  that  he  would 
marry  Audrey  first,  then  after  a  Httle  while  tell.  The 
more  he  examined  it,  the  more  obvious,  the  less  impos- 
sible of  failure  it  seemed.  "Gran,  dear,"  he  imagined 
himself  saying,  taking  his  opportunity  in  one  of  those 
frequent  moments  when,  out  driving  with  her  or  sitting 
alone  with  her  in  the  evening,  she  loved  just  to  sit  si- 
lent, resting  her  hand  on  his, —  "  Gran,  dear,  I've  something 
to  tell  you.  I've  done  something  and  done  it  without 
telling  you,  so  as  to  have  you  go  on  Hving  with  me  like 
we've  always  Uvcd  together.  Gran,  I'm  married  — 
Audrey,  Audrey  Oxford;  you  remember,  dear?  " 

Imagining  it,  he  could  imagine  her  arms  about  him. 


70  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

*'Gran,  I'm  married"  —  easy  and  kind.  "Gran,  I'm 
going  to  marry,  going  to  marry  Audrey  Oxford" — ■ 
cruel,  impossible  ! 

The  solution  removed  also  an  obstacle  to  their  mating 
on  Audrey's  side  —  her  sister.  Their  courtship  had 
been  carried  on  against  her  sister's  disapproval.  Maggie 
was  twenty  years  older  than  Audrey,  more  mother  to 
her  than  sister,  and  sharp-tongued  in  the  matter  of 
Roly's  frequent  visits,  the  more  surely  to  avert  the 
disaster  in  which  she  believed  they  must  end. 

"In  time  —  it's  only  a  question  of  time,"  she  had 
once  said  to  Audrey,  "he  will  forget  you,  turn  to  his 
own  position  and  responsibilities  in  Hfe  —  leave  you 
broken-hearted.     How  else  can  it  end?" 

And  Audrey  in  tears:  "What  if  I  tell  you  he  has 
asked  me  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"He  has  asked  you  that?" 

"Maggie,  he  has." 

"Has  he  told  Lady  Burdon?" 

"Not  yet,  because — " 

"Ah!" 

And  Audrey:   "Oh,  how  can  you  say  you  love  me?" 

And  Maggie  :   "Audrey  !     Audrey  !" 

And  Audrey  :   "Maggie,  I  didn't  mean  that." 

And  Maggie,  steeHng  her  heart:  "But  you  think  it: 
the  first  result  of  him.  You  are  girl  and  boy ;  you  don't 
understand.  Why,  I,  who  would  die  if  you  were  to 
die,  would  rather  see  you  dead  than  betrothed  to  him. 
If  it  ended  in  marriage,  it  would  end  in  misery." 

And  later  she  had  said  to  him  :  "  If  you  break  Audrey's 
heart,  I  will  never  forgive  you.  That's  a  poor  threat. 
I  would  find  a  way  perhaps  — " 

So  there  was  Maggie  stood  in  the  way ;  and  the  solu- 
tion found  a  way  round  Maggie.     And  there  was  lastly 


LOVE  TRIMS  WRECKERS'  LAMPS         71 

all  the  clatter  of  his  friends,  all  the  active  disapproval  of 
his  elders;  and  the  solution  found  an  easy  way  around 
that.  He  could  not  hurt  Gran ;  he  could  not  conciliate 
Maggie ;  he  could  not  face  himself  gossiped  of,  implored, 
advised,  reproved ;  and  the  solution  offered  an  easy  way 
around  it  all.  Easily  winning  Audrey  to  it,  — her  hands  in 
his,  his  spirit  possessing  hers  —  he  came  to  details.  He 
had  examined  and  arranged  everything.  He  had  made 
inquiries  as  to  Registry  Office  marriages.  They  were 
both  of  age.  There  was  a  residence  formality :  well, 
she  was  coming  on  a  visit  to  a  girl  friend  in  Kensington ; 
he  would  take  a  room  in  a  hotel  in  the  district.  They 
would  meet  at  the  Registry  "one  fine  day."  Long  leave 
from  his  regiment  was  due.  They  would  go  on  the 
continent  —  "all  over  the  place,  the  most  gorgeous  time " 
—  and  afterwards  —  easy  as  all  the  rest  was  easy  — 
Gran  should  be  told. 

He  ended  :  "Audrey  —  married  ! " 

And  she:   "Roly!  ...  Oh,  Roly!" 

Comic  were  the  word  for  such  a  thing. 

IV 

Comic  the  word ;  but  if,  instead,  you  choose  to  judge 
them  and  to  consider  preposterous  his  arguments  of  the 
case  between  his  Gran  and  his  Audrey  and  preposterous 
his  solution  of  it,  beg  you  remember  that  life  is  going  to 
be  an  impossible  affair  for  us,  a  thing  to  drive  us  mad,  if 
we  are  going  to  judge  it  by  the  standard  of  the  correct 
and  noble  characters  that  you  and  I  possess.  By  some 
means  or  another  we  must  stoop  down  to  the  level  of 
our  neighbours  and  try  to  judge  from  there.  Dowered 
with  all  the  virtues,  as  you  and  I  are,  it  is  the  easiest 
thing  in  the  world  to  be  impatient  with  another's  folly, 


72  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

to  despise  him  for  it,  to  indicate  how  little  moral  courage 
will  rid  him  of  its  effects;  nay,  to  go  further,  and  to 
declare  it  inconceivable  that  such  blunders  and  follies 
and  misbehaviours,  as  for  example  those  upon  which 
Roly  and  his  Audrey  were  now  embarked,  can  really 
have  been  committed.  But  that  is  a  stage  too  far. 
We  must  not  run  our  excusable  intolerance  of  folly  to 
the  length  of  caUing  impossible  even  the  most  absurd 
actions,  even  the  most  incredible  weakness  of  character. 
The  whole  history  of  mankind  results  precisely  from 
these  absurdities  and  these  incredibilities.  On  the  one 
hand,  we  should  still  and  should  all  be  in  Eden  if  it 
were  not  so ;  on  the  other,  there  is  the  distinctly  mov- 
ing thought  that  you  and  I,  faultless,  are  dependent  for 
our  entertainment  on  exactly  these  impossibihties  of 
character  in  others:  but  for  them  we  should  never 
enjoy  the  deHcious  thrill  of  being  shocked,  never  (the 
thing  is  unthinkable)  be  able  to  thank  God  we  are  not 
as  others  are. 

No,  we  must  accept  these  impossible  follies  on  the 
part  of  our  neighbours :  but  to  understand  them  — 
nay,  if  we  are  too  utterly  high  and  they  too  utterly  low 
for  that,  then  merely  to  pay  the  poor  devils  for  the  en- 
tertainment they  give  us  —  let  us  try  to  see  as  they  see, 
feel  as  they  feel,  become  naked  as  they  are  naked  to  the 
bitter  chill  of  cowardice,  of  temptation,  of  God  knows 
what  indeed  that  strikes  them  to  the  bone. 

Let  us  try,  and  coming  to  these  two,  let  it  for  Audrey 
at  least  be  excused  that  she  was  the  gentlest  thing  and 
all  unschooled  in  any  heavier  book  of  life  than  the  airy 
pamphlet  that  begins  "I  love ;"  with  "I  love"  continues ; 
with  "I  love"  ends;  and  never  asks,  much  less  supplies, 
what  "I  love"  means,  or  what  demands,  or  whither  leads, 
or  how  is  paid. 


II 


CHAPTER  II 

LO'VE   LEADS   AN   EXPEDITION    INTO   THE    UNFORESEEN 


He  married  her  —  and  wearied  of  her.  Within  two 
months  of  when  he  called  her  wife  —  and  pressed  her 
to  him  and  kissed  her  for  the  fondness  of  that  name,  and 
chaffed  her  with  "Wife"  in  place  of  Audrey  at  every 
lightest  word  —  within  two  months  of  that  tremendous 
day  he  was  discovering  himself  checked  and  irritated  by 
the  vexations,  the  hindrances,  the  deceptions  imposed 
by  secret  marriage  upon  his  former  free  and  buoyant 
way  of  Hfe.  Within  three  he  was  openly  irked,  not 
hiding  from  her  that  his  temper  was  crossed  when, 
stronger  and  more  frequently,  incidents  arose  to  cross 
it.  Within  four  months  —  and  still  their  secret  unde- 
clared —  he  was  often  neglecting  her,  often  silent  in 
her  presence  for  long  periods ;  brooding ;  frowning  at 
her  where  she  sat  or  where  she  walked  beside  him ;  leav- 
ing her  in  a  storm  ;  returning  to  her  in  remorse ;  assur- 
ing himself  he  did  not  love  her  less,  nay,  rather  loved  her 
more  —  But  .  .  .  !  Every  way  he  turned  and  every- 
thing she  did  and  all  the  things  she  did  not  do,  brought 
him  and  bruised  him  against  the  bars  of  wliich  that 
But  was  made. 

All  this  most  wretched  and  most  pitiful,  most  excus- 
able and  most  inexcusable  business  may  best  be  ex- 
amined in  the  incidents  that  stood  out  to  mark  its  prog- 

73 


74  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

ress.  Theirs  was  the  oldest  and  most  frequent  of  hu- 
man errors.  They  had  jumped  into  the  delights  of  the 
foreseen,  and  behold !  they  found  themselves  in  the 
swamp,  in  the  jungle,  in  the  desert,  in  the  whirlpool  of 
the  unforeseen. 


II 

Audrey  wrote  and  told  Sister  Maggie  —  a  letter  pledg- 
ing her  to  secrecy,  posted  on  the  very  moment  of  depar- 
ture for  the  Continent  ("at  our  wedding  breakfast  at 
the  Charing  Cross  hotel,  darhng;  and  the  train  just 
going")  and  breathing  ecstasy  of  happiness,  and  breath- 
ing love  all  atremble  in  its  prayer  for  forgiveness.  It 
informed  Maggie  that  they  were  to  be  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Red- 
path  until  everybody  was  told ;  and  "O,  darling  Maggie, 
I  shall  not  sleep  until  I  get  your  letter  —  Poste  restante, 
Paris,  dear  —  telling  me  you  forgive  me  and  how  glad 
you  are." 

Forgiveness  was  not  to  be  discovered  in  the  reply  by 
the  weeping  eyes  that  read  it.  "You  have  made  a  most 
terrible  mistake,"  Maggie  wrote.  "You  say  that  you 
are  happy,  but  you  will  find  you  can  only  be  miserable 
while  you  are  Hving  in  deception." 

The  wounding  sentences  were  written  in  a  firm,  clear 
penmanship  that  in  itself  was  cold  and  bitter  reprimand. 
As  they  appeared,  so  Audrey  read  them.  She  did  not 
know  that  they  were  written  while  the  hand  that  made 
them  could  be  steadied  from  its  trembUng  desire  to  send 
a  message  only  of  devotion,  only  of  prayer  for  Audrey's 
happiness,  only  of  blessing.  The  letter  brought  to  Au- 
drey's eyes  the  tears  that  Maggie  hoped  to  bring  but 
ached  to  bring  —  forcing  herself  to  be  cruel  in  order  to 
be  kind;    also  it  brought  belief  that  Maggie  was  and 


LOVE  LEADS  INTO  THE  UNFORESEEN      75 

wished  to  be  estranged.  It  was  never  answered.  Wisely 
intended,  unwisely  executed,  misread,  it  added  to  the 
record  of  human  perversity  another  of  those  immensely 
pitiful  blunders  that  solely  and  alone  are  the  cause  of 
human  unhappiness.  When  Heaven  holds  its  reas- 
sembly, Heaven,  as  we  seek  out  our  loved,  will  surely 
ring  with  broken,  loving  greetings  of :  "I  did  not  know  ! 
I  did  not  understand!"  No  more  will  need  be  said. 
All  tragedy,  all  sorrow  is  in  those  words;  all  tragedy, 
all  sorrow  removed  by  them. 

Roly  also  had  his  letter.  "If  you  cause  her  one  single 
moment's  unhappiness — "  and  other  wild  words.  He 
did  not  show  it  to  Audrey.  Cause  his  darling  unhappi- 
ness !  He  kissed  away  the  tears  her  own  letter  had 
brought  and  laughingly  cheered  her  with  an  amusing 
account  of  an  incident  in  the  hotel  lobby.  "We'll 
have  to  get  out  of  this  place,  Audrey.  There's  a  man 
staying  here  and  his  wife  that  I  know  well.  Great  pals 
of  Gran's.     I  near  as  a  toucher  ran  bang  into  them." 

It  was  the  first  glimpse  of  the  Unforeseen. 

m 

The  first  glimpse  of  the  Unforeseen  !  At  the  moment 
neither  recognised  it  for  such.  At  the  moment  it  was 
merely  "A  dickens  of  a  squeak.  I  say,  we'll  have  to 
look  out  for  that  kind  of  thing,  old  girl."  Later,  and 
that  before  very  long,  incidents  of  the  kind  began  to  be 
reahsed  as  the  Unforeseen  indeed.  "That  kind  of  thing " 
became,  or  seemed  to  become,  extraordinarily  and 
exasperatingly  frequent.  What  had  promised  to  be  the 
fun  of  looking  out  for  it  became  the  strain  of  avoiding 
it. 

There  came  a  day  —  in  Vienna,  an  original  item  of 


76  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

their  programme  but  reached  much  earlier  than  intended 
owing  to  "That  kind  of  thing's"  persistence  —  there 
came  a  day  when  signs  of  the  strain  were  suddenly  evi- 
denced, when,  like  a  disturbed  snake,  unsuspected  and 
sharply  alarming,  the  Unforeseen  upstarted  and  hissed 
at  them.  Audrey  had  struck  up  a  pleasant  hotel  ac- 
quaintance, the  matter  of  an  hour's  chat,  but  related 
rather  enthusiastically  to  Roly.  At  dinner  that  night 
she  pointed  out  her  friend.  "Right  at  the  far  end  — 
look  !  By  that  statue  sort  of  thing.  In  pink,  with 
that  tall  man ;  d'you  see,  dear  ?" 

He  saw ;  and  with  concern  she  saw  him  set  down  the 
glass  he  was  raising  to  his  lips  and  saw  his  face  darken. 
He  said:  "Damnation!  It's  Lady  Ashington.  It's 
maddening,  this  kind  of  thing.  By  God,  it  is.  I'm 
going.     She'll  spot  me  in  a  minute.     I'm  going." 

His  \dolent  words  hurt  her  and  frightened  her.  He  got 
to  his  feet  and  she  made  to  rise  also.  That  worsened 
the  incident.  "Stop  where  you  are,"  he  said  angrily. 
"Both  of  us  getting  up  —  making  people  look!  I  can 
slip  out  behind  here.     Damn  this  business  !" 

When  she  followed  him  to  their  room,  she  found  his 
temper  no  better  that  he  had  gone  without  his  dinner. 
He  had  made  arrangements,  he  told  her,  for  them  to 
leave  early  in  the  morning,  and  he  named  their  destina- 
tion. She  tried  to  pretend  not  to  notice  his  mood ;  but 
her  voice  trembled  a  Httle  as  she  said,  "I've  never 
heard  of  the  place,  dear." 

He  grunted,  a  little  ashamed  of  himself:  "I  don't 
suppose  anybody  has.  I  hope  not.  We  must  get  off  the 
beaten  track.  Badgered  about  like  this  from  pillar  to 
post.     It's  getting  on  my  nerves." 

She  faltered,  "I'm  so  sorry,  Roly." 

Her  tone  pricked  him.     But  these  men  hate  above  all 


LOVE  LEADS  INTO  THE  UNFORESEEN      77 

tilings  to  feel  in  the  wrong  when  they  are  in  the  wrong. 
The  effect  of  her  humility  was  to  make  him  explain :  "I 
don't  know  what  possessed  you,  Audrey,  'pon  my  soul 
I  don't,  to  go  palling  up  with  that  woman." 

Again  she  blundered.  His  reproach  was  so  absurd 
that  she  laughed  quite  naturally  at  it:  "0  Roly !  how 
ridiculous  !    How  was  I  to  know  you  knew  her  ?  " 

He  turned  on  her,  alarming  her  utterly.  "You 
ought  to  have  known  !" 

FooHsh,  exasperating  tears  in  her  eyes:  "How  could 
I?    How  could  I?" 

"I've  told  you  —  I've  warned  you;  that's  what  I 
mean.  I've  told  you  that  every  dashed  soul  I  ever 
knew  seems  to  be  all  over  the  Continent.  I've  warned 
you  to  be  careful.  Asked  you  not  to  get  in  with  people. 
You  absolutely  don't  care,  seems  to  me.  Perhaps  you 
think  it  funny  dodging  about  like  this  —  perhaps  you 
enjoy  it.  Well,  I  don't.  That's  enough.  Let's  drop 
the  subject." 

IV 

So  and  in  this  wise  the  miserable  business  Jolted 
towards  its  climax ;  deeper  blunders  at  every  step  and 
every  blunder  additional  to  the  load  that  stumbled 
them  into  the  next.  Here  was  a  young  man  that  had 
taken  to  himself  pleasures,  and  lo  !  they  were  chains, 
rattling  whensoever  he  moved  most  grimly  to  remind 
him  that  now  Hmits  were  imposed  upon  his  movements ; 
that  he  who,  by  virtue  of  his  rank,  of  the  blood  in  his 
veins,  of  his  own  high,  careless,  fearless  air,  that  he  who 
by  virtue  of  these  was  wont  to  look  every  man  in  the 
face  more  boldly  than  the  most  of  us,  must  now  hide, 
dodge,  shift,  dissemble,  or  betray  the  secret  that,  as  to 


78  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

his  torment  he  found,  every  day  and  every  covering 
deception  made  more  impossible  to  discover  to  the 
world. 

Of  all  mankind's  infirmities  nothing  than  deception  so 
quickly,  so  deeply  and  so  surely  turns  the  quality  of  his 
behaviour;  nothing  so  cruelly  tears,  so  acidly  pierces 
his  nerves;  nothing  so  saps  his  resolution,  destroys  his 
moral  fibre.  Honesty  is  sword  and  armour,  bread  and 
wine;  deception  a  voracious  canker  in  the  vitals,  a 
clutch  out  of  hell  dragging  through  fog  of  fear,  through 
slough  of  sin,  into  mire  unspeakable.  He  was  in  its 
torments,  he  was  writhing  from  them  into  deeper  blun- 
ders ;  he  began  to  shudder  at  the  thought  of  proclaiming 
his  marriage  —  yet. 

She  saw  his  plight  and,  all  unschooled  in  life,  she  con- 
tributed to  the  disaster.  Here  was  the  gentlest  creature, 
adoring  and  mated  with  an  impetuous  mate  that  now 
was  as  a  free  beast  trapped,  goaded  by  the  sudden  bars 
that  caged  him  on  every  side,  wildly  seeking  an  outlet, 
panicked  at  finding  none.  She  searched  her  miserable 
pamphlet  of  "I  love,"  stained  now  with  tears.  It  had 
nothing  to  give  her.  She  read  into  it  that  in  marrying 
her  Roly  she  thought  to  have  brought  him  nectar,  and 
lo  !  it  was  a  cup  of  poison  she  had  given  him,  tormenting 
him  utterly.  She  blamed  herself.  Through  wakeful 
nights  she  watched  him  where  he  lay  beside  her  — 
troubled  often  now  in  his  sleep  —  and  sought  and  sought, 
fumbling  her  pamphlet,  to  know  what  amends  she  could 
make  him ;  and  chid  herself  she  was  a  burden  to  him ; 
and  would  sit  up  in  the  darkness  and  wring  her  poor 
young  hands  in  her  distracted  grief. 

He  noted  the  results  that  these  distresses  of  her  mind 
introduced  to  her  appearance  and  her  behaviour.  They 
did  not  aid  the  difficulties  with  which  he  foimd  himself 


11 


LOVE  LEADS  INTO  THE  UNFORESEEN   79 

beset.  This  was  the  beginning  of  the  period  of  neglect 
of  her;  of  silence  in  her  presence  for  long  periods;  of 
brooding ;  of  frowning  at  her  where  she  sat  or  when  she 
walked  beside  him ;  of  leaving  her  in  a  storm,  returning 
in  remorse ;  of  assuring  himself  he  did  not  love  her  less, 
nay,  rather  loved  her  more  —  But ! 


V 

At  the  end  of  August  came  their  return  to  England, 
and  immediately  his  full  realisation  of  the  ghastly  delu- 
sion of  the  idea  that  it  were  easy  to  tell  Gran  —  easy 
and  kind  —  when  the  thing  was  done.  Monstrous 
delusion,  ghastly  folly !  Why,  the  very  fates  were 
arrayed  against  it.  He  returned  to  find  Gran  aiUng,  in 
bed.  He  went  to  the  Mount  Street  house,  bracing  his 
warped  resolution  to  the  pitch  of  telHng  her,  and  it  was 
to  her  bedroom  he  must  go,  and  found  her  weak  and 
stretching  out  her  arms  to  him  and  overjoyed  —  0  God  ! 
so  overjoyed  !  —  to  have  her  Roly  back.  How  tell  her  ? 
Agony  enough  that  she  had  no  reproach  for  his  neglect 
of  her  through  the  summer,  nor  any  that  he  was  come 
now  with  the  news  that  he  had  run  his  leave  to  the  last 
day  and  must  at  once  rejoin  the  regiment  at  Canterbury. 
Agony  enough  that  she  nothing  reproached,  nothin| 
questioned;  unthinkable  the  agony  of  watching  her 
while  he  said,  "Gran  —  Gran,  dear,  I'm  married. 
Audrey,  Audrey  Oxford,  you  know,"  and  of  hearing  her 
poor  lips  falter,  "Married?  Married,  Roly?  Audrey 
Oxford?     Married,  Roly?" 

Unthinkable  !     Impossible  ! 

'  But  it  was  another  blunder  committed,  another  step 
deeper  into  the  coils,  and  he  knew  it  for  that  when  he 
left  her,  and  ranged  it  with  the  similar  torments  that 


8o  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

possessed  him  :  the  mad  initial  folly ;  the  blunder  of  not 
proclaiming  the  marriage  immediately  he  was  married; 
the  blunder  of  each  hour  delayed  during  the  weeks  on 
the  Continent. 

Now  he  was  in  the  very  jungle  of  the  Unforeseen. 
Each  step,  every  day,  lost  him  deeper  in  its  fastnesses ; 
and  Uke  one  so  lost  indeed,  its  dangers  —  encountered 
or  suspected  on  every  hand  —  preyed  upon  his  mind, 
robbed  his  remaining  courage,  lost  him  his  moral  bear- 
ings that  remained  unwarped.  His  regimental  duties 
kept  him  at  Canterbury.  He  could  not  have  Audrey 
there.  He  took  a  tiny  furnished  flat  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Knightsbridge  and  there  installed  her,  and  there 
ran  up  to  see  her  as  often  as  might  be.  And  the  inevi- 
table began.  The  inevitable  —  the  chaff  of  his  com- 
panions as  to  why  he  was  forever  "dodging  up  to  town"  ; 
the  meetings  with  his  friends  and  their  "Roly,  where 
the  devil  do  you  get  to  these  days?"  the  discovery  that 
not  only  his  men  friends  but  his  larger  circle  of  acquaint- 
ances —  Gran's  friends  —  were  beginning  to  gossip  of 
his  mysterious  habits.  The  former  put  a  man's  inter- 
pretation on  his  conduct,  baited  him  that  they  would 
track  him  down  "to  see  what  she  was  like."  That 
thrice  infuriated  him :  on  Audrey's  account ;  on  the 
fear  that  they  might  do  it  and  disclosure  be  forced,  to 
relieve  her  from  the  horrible  thing ;  and  on  the  fact  that 
what  was  implied  was  detestable  to  his  nature.  The 
larger  circle  of  his  friends  were  not  more  charitable,  if 
more  discreet.  Gran,  who  was  better  again  and  had 
gone  for  her  health  to  Burdon  Old  Manor,  sent  letters 
that  failed  to  hide  concern  telling  him  of  this,  that  and 
the  other  friend  who  had  written  saying  he  denied  himself 
to  ever}'body,  was  frequently  in  town,  but  never  avail- 
able and  never  to  be  found.     Gran  "hoped  nothing  was 


LOVE  LEADS  INTO  THE  UNFORESEEN   8i 

wrong,  dear;"  but  erased  her  suspicion  with  her  pen, 
but  not  so  well  that  he  could  not  read  the  words  and  pic- 
ture the  troubled  thoughts  that  wrote  them. 

Ah  !  this  was  that  grisly  Unforeseen  in  shape  new  and 
most  monstrous.  How  meet  it?  How  meet  it?  Just 
as  he  had  shrunk  from  announcing  his  intention  of  mar- 
riage because  of  the  clatter  of  tongues  and  the  opposition 
that  it  would  loose  upon  him,  so  now,  but  a  thousand, 
thousand  times  more,  he  shrank  from  the  clatter  that 
divulgement  of  his  secret  would  cause ;  from  the  resent- 
ment of  his  world  at  its  befoolment  by  him  (as  they  would 
feel  it) ;  from  the  sneers  and  laughter  at  his  turpitude ; 
from  the  apologies  with  which  he  must  go  round  on  his 
knees  to  those  he  had  deceived ;  from  the  interminable 
explanations  he  must  make.  The  Unforeseen  in  shape 
most  monstrous !  It  rushed  him  as  a  host  of  savage 
beasts  that  had  snarled,  that  had  threatened,  that  had 
come  at  him  singly  and  torn  him  but  been  whipped,  but 
that  now  was  on  him  in  the  pack.  How  meet  it  ?  How 
meet  it  ?  God  !  What  a  Hghtsome,  harmless,  innocent, 
mad,  wanton,  reckless  thing  he  had  done,  and  what  a 
turmoil  he  had  loosed  ! 

Bitter  days,  these,  in  the  Knightsbridge  flat.  That 
pamphlet  of  "I  love"  all  connoted  now,  written  in  tears, 
with  what  "I  love"  demands,  where  leads  and  must  be 
paid. 


CHAPTER  III 


A  lovers'  I-ITANY 


Bitter  days  —  but  suddenly  breaking  to  dawn. 
There  came  to  him,  on  the  rack  of  this  torment,  a  thought 
that  tortured  him  anew,  yet  made  for  healing.  Audrey  ? 
Even  if,  as  in  his  extremity  he  debated,  he  dared  all  and 
defied  all  —  snatched  himself  out  of  this  hell  by  pub- 
lishing his  position  and  crying  to  all  concerned,  "Now 
do  and  say  your  worst !"  — even  if  he  so  made  an  end 
of  it,  to  what  would  he  bring  her  ?  How  would  she  be 
received,  suddenly  proclaimed  his  wife  when  this  ugly 
crop  of  suspicion  and  gossip  was  at  its  height?  He 
knew,  or  through  his  distraught  imagination  he  beheved 
he  knew ;  and  he  writhed  to  picture  her  —  his  gentle, 
unversed  Audrey  —  thus  introduced  to  the  suspicious, 
uncharitable,  malicious  atmosphere  that  well  he  was 
aware  his  world  could  breathe.  "Comes  from  a  post- 
office  somewhere,  or  a  shop  was  it?  Married  at  such 
and  such  a  date  —  so  he  says  I " 

Thus  the  gate  was  slammed  anew  upon  his  resolution 
and  locked  and  double-locked :  the  way  must  somehow 
be  prepared  for  Audrey,  the  gossip  by  some  means  made 
to  die,  before  he  declared  her.  And  with  that  there 
was  unlocked  and  opened  wide  the  gate  that  had  barred 
up  his  love.  Imagining  the  world's  treatment  of  her, 
he  realised  his  own. 

8? 


A  LOVERS'  LITANY  83 

It  was  in  the  tumult  of  these  discoveries  that  he  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  Knightsbridge  fiat  and  greeted  his 
Audrey  with  a  fondness  that  made  her  cry  a  little  for 
happiness ;  she  frequently  cried  in  these  days,  not  often 
for  happiness.  His  fondness  continued  at  that  dear 
level  through  the  evening.  It  emboldened  her  to  urge 
again  the  step  that  she  believed  the  best  of  all  the  many 
plans  she  ceaselessly  revolved  for  curing  the  trouble  she 
told  herself  she  had  brought  upon  him.  She  urged  him 
to  tell  Gran.  "Do  tell  her,  dear.  It  will  end  all  your 
worry.  You're  so  worried,  Roly.  I  see  it  —  oh,  how 
I  see  it !  And  I  only  add  to  it  because  I'm  not  —  be- 
cause I  don't  —  because  I  vex  you  in  so  many  ways. 
I  know  I  do.  You  used  to  be  so  happy.  You  will 
be  again  directly  this  is  all  over.  Do  tell  her,  Roly ! 
Roly,  do!" 

She  had  been  seated  on  the  floor,  her  head  resting 
against  him  where  he  sat  in  a  great  armchair.  Now, 
in  this  appeal  of  hers,  she  was  turned  about  and  on  her 
knees,  her  hands  enfondhng  his,  her  face  lifted  towards 
him. 

He  made  a  Httle  choking  sound,  all  his  love  for  her 
surging;  all  his  treatment  of  her  wounding  him;  the 
thought  of  what  he  would  bring  her  to  if  he  took  the 
course  she  urged  filling  him  with  remorse  and  with  pity 
for  her.  He  said  in  a  strangled  voice:  "I  can't;  I 
can't,"  and  stooping,  he  raised  her  to  him  so  that  they 
lay  together  in  the  big  chair,  their  faces  close,  his  arms 
about  her.  .  .  . 

For  a  little  space,  except  that  she  was  crying  softly, 
they  were  silent  —  clasped  thus,  most  dear  to  one  an- 
other; and  then  proclaimed  that  dearness  in  scraps  of 
murmured  sentences,  the  gaps  filled  up  by  what  their 
tones  and  their  clasped  arms  instructed  them.  .  .  . 


84  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Just  murmurs,  and  dusky  evening  in  the  room  —  light, 
faint  as  their  tones  were  faint,  and  in  the  shadows  (how 
else  seemed  the  air  they  breathed  at  every  breath  to 
thrill  them  ?)  spirits  of  true  lovers  that  were  winged  down 
as,  let  us  beheve,  lovers'  spirits  may  when  mortals  love. 

Just  murmurs. 

He  said:  "Audrey,  Audrey,  I've  been  so  cruel  — 
angry  —  thoughtless." 

And  she:   "No  .  .  .  no." 

And  she  again:  "Go  to  her,  then,  Roly.  Don't  tell, 
if  you  think  not.  .  .  .  Just  be  with  her  for  a  Httle.  .  .  . 
You'll  be  happy  then.  .  .  .  Leave  me  alone  a  little, 
dear.  .  .  .     Not  even  write." 

And  he:  "Audrey!  .  .  .  Audrey!" 

Her  voice:  "I  shall  be  happy  ...  if  only  you  are 
happy  ..." 

And  his:  "I  have  been  mad  .  .  .  mad  to  treat  you 
so.  .  .  .  Forgive.  .  .  .  Forgive." 

Her  voice  —  and  close,  close,  all  those  lovers'  spirits 
to  hear  this  lovers'  litany:  "When  you  are  happy  .  .  . 
I  am  happy." 

And  liis  —  and  all  these  murmurs  chorused  from  lover's 
wraith  to  lover's  wraith,  as  watchers  handing  flame  from 
hand  to  hand  to  instruct  heaven  love  still  is  here :  "Au- 
drey !  .  .  .  Audrey  !" 

And  she:  "My  dear  .  .  .  my  dear  !" 


II 

Happy  for  her,  happy  for  him,  for  all  that  have  a 
smile  and  tear  for  true  love,  to  remember  that  from  that 
moment  never  a  hasty  word  or  thought  passed  between 
them.  In  that  lovers'  litany  all  such  were  purged,  the 
past  v,iped  out  as  if  it  had  never  been.    And,  as  if  in 


A  LOVERS'  LITANY  85 

reward,  into  the  night  that  surrounded  Roly  came  a 
ray  like  a  miraculous  rope  thrown  to  one  in  a  pit. 

The  way  must  somehow  be  prepared  for  Audrey,  he 
had  said ;  the  gossip  somehow  be  made  to  die  before  he 
could  declare  her. 

Sir  Wryford  Sheringham  supphed  the  way. 

General  Sir  Wryford  Sheringham  had  been  his  father's 
close  frienci,  was  Gran's  much-trusted  nephew  and  her 
adviser  in  Roly's  training.  Gran  was  sending  him  ap- 
pealing letters  in  these  days,  imploring  him  to  find  out 
what  it  was  that  was  wrong  with  her  dear  Roly.  Chance 
enabled  him  suddenly  to  reply  that,  on  the  eve  of  his 
return  to  India,  he  was  now  returning  to  take  command 
of  the  Frontier  Expedition  that  the  government  of  India 
had  been  saving  up  for  a  long  time  against  three  Border 
tribes,  and  that  he  purposed  taking  Roly  with  him.  He 
could  invent  a  corner  to  shove  the  boy  into,  he  wrote; 
and  she  must  not  break  her  heart  nor  shed  a  single  tear 
except  for  joy  that  the  chance  had  come  to  get  the  boy 
away  and  to  work.  "Whatever  it  is  he's  been  up  to," 
Sir  Wryford  wrote,  "this'll  pull  him  out  of  it  and  send 
him  back  to  you  his  father's  son  again." 

They  walked  into  this  last  and  supreme  blunder  as 
blindly  as  they  had  gone  into  the  first.  Roly  presented 
it  as  the  opportunity  more  wonderful  than  any  that  he 
could  have  invented  to  give  this  gossiping  the  sHp. 
When  he  returned  ("loaded  with  medals,  old  girl,"  as, 
aflame  with  excitement,  he  told  her)  it  would  all  be  for- 
gotten ;  open  arms  for  him  and  open  arms  for  her. 

Audrey's  contribution  to  the  folly  was  as  characteris- 
tic. The  news  struck  her  like  a  blow;  but  instantly 
with  the  shock  came  its  anodyne.  He  planned  for  her ; 
every  word  of  his  rushing,  thoughtless  words  was  drafted 
to  scale  of  "Because  I  love  you  so;"  though  they  had 


86  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

been  actual  knives  she  would  gladly  have  clasped  such 
to  her  heart. 

Credit  him  that  the  night  before  the  day  on  which  he 
sailed  he  had  a  sudden  reaUsation  of  his  madness.  Credit 
him,  at  least,  that  now  for  the  first  time  in  their  mis- 
guided chapter,  he  saw  a  blunder  before  he  was  irrev- 
ocably in  it,  and  seeing  it,  tried  to  halt.  He  reaUsed. 
He  told  her  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  leave  her 
thus.  He  must  leave  her  in  her  right  place.  He  must 
leave  her  with  Gran.  Gran  was  in  town  to  bid  him 
good-by.  He  must  —  he  would  tell  her  that  very 
night  of  their  marriage :  in  the  morning  take  Audrey  to 
her. 

But  at  that  she  broke  down  utterly  —  betraying  for 
the  first  time  the  flood  and  tempest  of  her  agony  at 
losing  him  and,  while  he  strove  to  soothe  her,  imploring 
him  not  to  put  upon  her  this  last  trial  of  her  strength. 
'a  couldn't  bear  it,  Roly!"  she  sobbed.  "Roly,  I 
couldn't  bear  it!"  Overwrought  by  the  cumulative 
effects  of  the  past  months,  culminating  in  the  sleepless 
agony  of  this  last  week  and  now  in  the  unendurable  tor- 
ture of  good-by,  she  became  hysterical  at  his  proposal; 
sobbed  as  if  her  reason  were  gone,  shaking  with  dreadful 
spasms  of  emotion  that  terrified  him  lest  she  would  be 
unable  to  retake  her  breath.  His  arms  about  her,  and  his 
loving  pleadings,  his  earnest  promises  to  withdraw  what 
he  had  said,  joined  with  the  sheer  weariness  of  her  con- 
vulsive distress  at  last  to  reHeve  her.  She  passed  into 
a  still,  exhausted  state  and  thence  —  utterly  alarming 
him  by  her  deathly  pallor  and  by  the  faintness  of  her 
voice  —  into  imploring  him  in  whispers  into  the  last, 
worst  folly  of  all  their  pitiable  blunders.  She  could  not 
be  left,  she  implored  him,  with  Gran  —  left  alone  with 
her,  left  in  such  circumstances.     *'No,  no!    Roly,  no! 


A  LOVERS'  LITANY  87 

Together,  Roly;  not  alone,  not  alone  !"  And  then  she 
began  to  assure  him  of  her  happiness  if  she  might  just 
wait  here.  "You  can  always  think  of  me  and  imagine 
me  here  :  just  waiting  for  you,  and  thinking  of  you  and 
praying  for  you ;  and  not  lonely,  not  unhappy.  I  prom- 
ise not  lonely ;  I  promise,  promise  not  unhappy  !  You 
can't  think  of  me  like  that  if  you  leave  me  with  Lady 
Burdon.  You  don't  know  what  may  happen  to  me ;  how 
she  may  feel  towards  me  or  what  I  might  imagine  she 
felt  and  what  I  might  not  do.  I  could  not  —  I  could 
not!" 

Try  to  understand  him  that  he  suffered  himself  to  be 
convinced  against  himself.  So  placed ;  so  implored ; 
so  loved  and  so  loving ;  so  shackled  by  the  train  of  blun- 
ders he  had  committed,  a  hundred  times  more  mse,  more 
strong  a  man  than  twelfth  Baron  Burdon  would  have 
given  way  as  he  gave  way.  This  was  their  farewell,  and 
not  to  rob  its  fleeting  hours  more  he  agreed,  and  turned 
with  her  to  rehearse  the  plans  for  her  comfort  in  his  ab- 
sence. The  flat  was  taken  for  six  months  ahead.  "Back 
in  four  !  Now  I  bet  you  any  money  I'm  back  in  four  ! " 
There  was  money  banked  for  her.  Finally  he  wrote 
and  gave  her  two  letters,  one  addressed  to  a  Mr.  Pember- 
ton  —  "One  of  the  best,  old  Pemberton"  —  the  other 
to  Gran.  He  began  to  say,  "If  anything  happens  to 
me,"  but  went  on:  "If  ever  you  get  —  you  know  — 
down  on  your  luck  —  that  kind  of  thing  —  or  feel  you'd 
like  to  make  it  known  about  us  before  I  come  back,  just 
send  those  letters  —  just  as  they  are;  you  needn't 
write  or  take  them  yourself.  They  explain  everything, 
they  ...  oh,  don't  cry.  .  .  .     Audrey  .  .  .  Audrey!" 

Within  a  few  hours  he  was  gone.  Within  four  months 
they  were  building  a  cairn  of  stones  above  him  to  keep 
the  jackals  from  his  body. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHAT    THE    TOOO-FIRTY   WINNER    BROUGHT   MRS.    ERPS 


Come  to  her  in  the  month  of  January.  Bridge  those 
long  weeks  wherein  she  lived  from  mail  day  to  mail 
day  —  as  one  not  strong  that  has  a  weary  mile  to  cover 
and  walks  from  seat  to  seat  —  and  come  to  her  there. 

She  was  at  this  time  not  in  good  health,  suffered  much 
from  headaches  and  was  oppressed  with  a  constant 
fatigue.  In  this  condition  fresh  air  without  exertion 
had  become  very  desirable  to  her,  and  she  formed  the 
daily  habit  of  long  rides  outside  the  leisurely  horsed 
tramcars  of  those  days.  Study  of  a  guide  acquainted 
her  with  their  routes.  She  had  a  particular  one  for  each 
day  of  the  week,  counting  from  Saturday  to  Friday,  and 
arranged  on  a  little  plan  by  which  (as  she  made  believe) 
each  journey  was  part  of  a  long  journey  whose  end  was 
Friday's  ride,  whence  she  returned  home  to  find  the 
Indian  mail.  Not  only  fresh  air  was  obtained  by  this 
means,  but  a  sense  of  actively  advancing  towards  the 
day  that  brought  the  letters,  round  which  she  lived. 

On  an  afternoon  of  this  January  her  ride  was  from 
Holborn,  through  IsHngton  and  HoUoway,  to  Highgate 
Archway.  On  the  near  side  of  the  Hollo  way  road,  half 
a  mile  perhaps  below  the  stopping  place,  there  is  a  group 
of  houses  approached  by  shallow  steps  that  have  re- 
sisted the  overpowering  incHnation  of  the  district  to  be- 
come shops  and  instead  support  their  tenants  by  pro- 

88 


WHAT  THE  WINNER  BROUGHT  MRS.  ERPS     89 

viding  apartments.  The  car  that  carried  her  had  stopped 
here.  She  had  learnt  to  eke  out  the  amusement  of  these 
rides  by  attention  to  all  manner  of  Httle  incidents,  and 
—  employed  with  one  such  —  was  wondering  if  her  car 
would  restart  before  it  was  reached  by  a  newsboy  who 
ran  towards  them  from  the  distance,  his  pink  contents- 
bill  fluttering  apronwise  before  him.  Some  one  was  a 
terribly  long  time  over  the  business  of  ahghting  or  en- 
tering. The  newsboy  won.  A  few  yards  from  where 
she  sat  above  him  he  stopped  to  sell  a  paper  and  to  fumble 
for  change.  The  halt  caused  his  fluttering  pink  apron  to 
come  to  rest. 

PEER 

KH^LED   IN 

FRONTIER 

FIGHTING 

Had  something  actually  struck  her  throat?  Was  a 
hand  actually  strangling  there?  Could  they  see  she 
was  fighting  for  breath  ?  Was  the  car  really  rocking  — 
right  up  so  she  could  not  see  the  street,  right  down  and 
all  the  street  circling  ?  Could  others  hear  that  shrill 
and  enormous  din  that  threatened  to  split  her  brain  ? 

Through  the  tremendous  hubbub  and  the  dizzy  rock- 
ing she  got  down.  If  this  strangle  at  her  throat  did  not 
relax,  if  this  dizzy  whirUng  did  not  cease,  this  immense 
din  silence.  .  .  . 

A  curious  voice,  leagues  away,  said:  "Yer've  got  ter 
pye  fer  it,  y'know." 

She  put  her  fingers  in  her  purse  and  held  out  what  she 
could  gather.  A  figure  that  had  been  going  up  and  down 
in  front  of  her  seemed  to  take  a  tremendous  sidelong 
sweep  and  vanished.     She  was  left  with  a  paper  in  her 


90  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

hands  and  knew  what  she  must  do.     But  if  this  din,  this 
giddy  circling.  .  .  . 

It    suddenly    stopped.     Everything    stopped.     There 
was  not  a  sound,  there  was  not  a  movement. 


II 

London  stands  stock  still  in  the  middle  of  a  windy, 
crowded  pavement  to  open  its  evening  paper  and  to 
peer  at  the  stop-press  space  for  only  one  particular  pur- 
pose. While  she  thus  stood  and  peered  (and  suddenly 
knew  this  icy  silence  was  the  gathering  of  an  immense 
tide  that  was  coming  —  coming)  a  woman  who  wore  an 
apron  over  a  capitally  developed  figure,  and  a  rakish 
cloth  cap  over  a  headful  of  curl  papers,  opened  the  door 
of  the  house  immediately  beside  her  (appearing  with 
the  air  of  one  shot  at  immense  velocity  out  of  a  trap) 
and  called  "I !  Piper  !"  She  then  exclaimed  nearly  as 
loudly  "Ennoyin'  !"  and  then  saw  Audrey. 

This  lady's  name  was  Mrs.  Erps,  and  she  knew  per- 
fectly well,  and  rejoiced  to  observe  an  example  of,  the 
pecuHarity  in  regard  to  London's  evening  paper  that  has 
been  noted  above.  Mrs.  Erps  rolled  her  solid  hands 
in  her  apron  and  came  down  ingratiatingly.  A  model 
of  correctness.  "Excoose  me,  my  dear,"  she  began, 
"Excoose  me,  wot  'orse  won  the  tooo-firty?  My  old 
man  —  Ho,  thenks,  I'm  sure  —  Ho,  gryshus  ! " 

Relating  the  incident  later  in  the  evening  to  a  lady 
friend,  and  acting  it  with  considerable  dramatic  power : 
'"Ands  me  the  piper  she  does,"  said  Mrs.  Erps,  "as 
natural  as  I  'ands  this  apring  to  you  and  then  looks  at 
me  jus'  as  if  I  mightn't  had  been  there,  and  then  she 
says  in  a  whissiper  *  Oh,  dear  ! '  she  says.  '  O  Gawd  ! ' 
and  dahn  she  goes  plump  —  dahn  like  that !"  explained 


WHAT  THE  WINNER  BROUGHT  MRS.  ERPS     91 

Mrs.  Erps  from  the  floor,  very  nearly  carrying  her 
friend  with  her  in  the  stress  of  dramatic  illustration. 

But  Mrs.  Erps  was  more  than  a  great  tragedy  actress ; 
she  was  also  a  kindly  soul  and  there  is  to  be  added  to 
this  quality  the  genial  warmth  aroused  in  her  by  the 
fact  that  the  tooo-firty  winner  was  Lolhpop,  that  Lolli- 
pop had  cantered  home  at  what  she  called  sevings,  and 
that  her  old  man  was  seving  times  arf  a  dollar  the  richer 
for  the  performance.  ''Carry  'er  in  there,"  said  Mrs. 
Erps  in  a  very  loud  voice  to  a  policeman  in  particular 
and  to  a  considerable  area  of  the  street  in  general. 
"Young  man,  that's  my  'ouse,  and  Mrs.  Elbert  Erps 
my  nime,  and  dahn  in  front  of  it  the  pore  young  thing's 
fell  jus'  as  she  was  'anding  me  this  very  piper  wot  'ad 
come  aht  to  see  the  tooo-firty  winner.  'Excoose  me,'  I 
says  to  'er,  '  excoose  me  —  '" 

The  policeman  :  "All  right,  mother.  Now,  then,  you 
boys." 

Mrs.  Elbert  Erps,  going  backwards  up  the  steps, 
hands  beneath  the  arms  of  that  poor  stricken  creature : 
"There's  a  cleeng,  sweet  bed  in  my  first  front,  well- 
haired  and  wool  blenkits,  that  lets  eight  and  six  and  find 
yer  own,  and  could  ask  ten,  and  there  she'll  rest,  the  poot 
pretty  thing,  dropped  on  me  very  doorstep,  as  yer  might 
say,  and  standin'  there  with  the  piper  same  as  you 
might.     'Excoose  me,'  I  says  to  'er,  'excoose  me — '" 

Mrs.  Erps  shot  open  her  front  door  with  a  backward 
plunge  of  her  foot,  the  policeman  closed  it  with  a  back- 
ward kick  of  his  foot ;  and  to  the  continued  recital  in 
great  detail  of  how  it  all  happened,  their  burden  was  car- 
ried to  the  first  front  and  laid  upon  the  cleeng,  sweet 
bed,  well-haired,  wool  blenkits,  eight  and  six  and  find 
^er  own. 

They  loosened  her  dress  at  her  throat;   beneath  the 


92  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

constable's  direction  made  use  of  water  and  chafed  her 
hands.  "Marrit,"  said  Mrs.  Erps,  denoting  the  wedding 
ring.     "  Marrit,  she  is." 

Presently  Audrey  opened  her  eyes. 

"Why,  there  you  are!"  cried  Mrs.  Erps  in  high  de- 
light. "There  you  are,  my  pretty.  Safe  and  sahnd 
as  ever  you  was.  There  you  are  !  You  recolleck  me, 
don't  you,  my  love?  Wot  you  gave  the  piper  to? 
'Excoose  me,'  I  says  to  yer,  'excoose  me,'  I  says — " 

Audrey's  eyes  went  meaninglessly  from  Mrs,  Erps 
to  the  constable,  her  eyelids  fluttered  above  them  and 
closed. 

"Stand  aht  of  it!"  said  Mrs.  Erps  to  the  constable 
in  a  very  sharp  whisper.  "Stand  aht  of  it,  frightenin' 
her.  'E  won't  'urt  you,  my  pretty.  'E  only  carried 
of  yer  up.  Dahn  you  went,  yer  know,  right  dahn. 
Where's  your  'usbing,  my  pretty  ?  " 

Her  Ups  just  parted.  She  moaned  "Oh,  dear  I  O 
God!" 

Mrs.  Erps  communicated  to  the  constable:  "Jus' 
'er  very  words.     Dahn  she  went  — " 

The  eyes  opened  again. 

"Your  'usbing,  dear,  I'm  askin'.  'Usbing.  Ain't 
you  got  a  ma,  my  dear  ?    Ain't  you  got  a  pa  ?" 

She  said:    "Dead  .  .  .  dead  .  .  .  Oh,  dear  ..." 

"Orhng,"  communicated  Mrs.  Erps. 

"Rambling  in  her  mind,"  said  the  constable.  "Not 
answering  you,  she  wasn't." 

"You  pop  off,  young  man,"  commanded  Mrs.  Erps 
with  sudden  hostihty.  "Ramberling!  Didn't  I  ask 
her,  and  didn't  she  give  answer  back  to  me  ?  Ramber- 
ling !  You  pop  off.  I'll  fine  where  she  lives,  and  my 
old  man  '11  come  to  the  station  if  so  need  be.  'E  ain't 
afraid  of  yer,  so  don't  you  think  it.     Served  on  a  joory, 


WHAT  THE  WINNER  BROUGHT  MRS.  ERPS     93 

he  has,  before  now.  Ramberling  !  I'm  going  to  rub 
'er  pore  feet.  That's  what  I'm  goin'  to  do.  Ramber- 
ling !  She  knows  mj  as  spoke  'er  fair  before  ever  you 
came.     'Excoose  me,'  I  says  to  her,  'excoose  me  —  '" 

The  policeman,  from  the  door:  "Yes,  I've  heard 
that." 

Mrs.  Erps,  bending  over  the  stairs :  "  Pop  o£f !  That's 
what  I'm  telling  you.     Pop  off  !" 


Ill 

Mrs.  Erps  rubbed  the  "pore  feet,"  put  a  hot  bottle  to 
them,  covered  the  poor,  motionless  form  with  two  of  the 
wool  blenkits,  called  up  her  old  man  when  he  came  in ; 
and  in  his  presence  and  in  that  of  the  lady  second  floor 
lodger  and  the  young  man  first  back  lodger,  trembHng 
with  witnessed  honesty,  she  opened  the  pretty  dear's 
purse  and  searched  her  pocket  for  any  clue  to  her  home. 
There  was  none.  Mrs.  Erps,  having  counted  the  money 
in  the  purse,  written  down  the  amount  and  had  the 
paper  signed  by  her  old  man,  by  second  floor  and  by 
first  back,  bade  them  pop  off,  and  sat  beside  her  patient 
with  soothing  words  and  frequently  a  kiss  to  the  reiter- 
ated "Oh,  dear  ...  oh,  dear  .  .  .  O  God  !  "  that  came 
in  scarcely  audible  sighs  as  from  one  numbed  with  pain 
and  utterly  tired. 

So,  only  now  and  then  sighing,  eyes  closed,  she  lay 
for  close  upon  three  hours.  Mrs.  Erps  stole  away  to 
cook  up  a  nice  bit  of  fried  fish  for  'er  old  man^  revisiting 
the  first  front  at  intervals,  waiting  to  hear  that  weary 
moan,  and  returning  down-stairs  increasingly  troubled 
with:  "I  don't  like  to  hear  her.  Fair  wrings  my  'art, 
it  does." 

A  visit  paid  towards  seven  o'clock  was  better  re- 


94  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

warded.  Audrey  opened  her  eyes,  looked  full  and  in- 
telligently at  Mrs.  Erps,  standing  there  with  a  lighted 
candle,  and  quite  naturally  addressed  her.  She  ques- 
tioned nothing.  She  seemed  fully  to  understand  where 
she  was  and  why.  In  tones  weak  but  quite  clear  and 
collected  she  made  two  requests.  Please  let  her  stay 
here  for  the  night  and  leave  her  quite  alone ;  she  wanted 
nothing,  just  to  be  alone ;  and  please  send  a  telegram 
for  her. 

She  dictated  the  message  and  it  was  sent  —  to  Maggie, 
and  with  Mrs.  Erps'  address  added,  and  running : 
"Please  come  at  once.    He  is  dead.    Audrey." 

IV 

Miss  Oxford  arrived  in  the  early  afternoon  of  the 
next  day.  All  the  devotion  of  the  years  she  had  moth- 
ered Audrey,  all  the  longing  —  longing  —  longing  of 
the  past  months  for  news,  all  the  agony  of  suspense  in 
the  train  journey  (the  papers  informing  her  as  they  in- 
formed new  Lady  Burdon  at  Miller's  Field),  all  a  break- 
ing heart's  distress  was  in  the  little  cry  she  gave  when 
she  entered  first  front  and  saw  that  strangely  white, 
strangely  impassive  face  l>ing  on  the  pillow. 

"My  darling!  Oh,  my  darling"  —  arms  about  the 
still  form,  tears  raining  down. 

No  responsive  movement;  just  "Dear  Maggie  — 
dear  Maggie." 

"Why  did  you  never  write  ? " 

"Dear  Maggie  ..." 

There  was  no  more  of  explanation  between  them. 

"Maggie,  I  want  to  be  quite,  quite  still.  Not  to  talk, 
Maggie  darhng.  Just  hold  my  hand  and  let  me  lie  here. 
Are  you  holding  it  ?  " 


WHAT  THE  WINNER  BROUGHT  MRS.  ERPS     95 

"Audrey!    Audrey!    Yes  —  yes.     In  both  mine." 

"I  don't  feel  you." 

She  seemed  to  feel  nothing,  to  want  nothing,  and, 
though  she  lay  now  with  wide  eyes,  to  see  nothing.  She 
just  lay,  scarcely  seeming  to  breathe.  Once  she  said, 
in  a  very  fond  voice,  "Yes,  Roly,"  as  if  she  were  in  con- 
versation with  him.     No  other  sound. 

After  a  long  time  Maggie  told  her:  "Darling,  I'm 
going  to  bring  a  doctor  to  see  you." 

No  reply  nor  movement  when  Maggie  released  the 
hand  she  held  and  left  the  room  to  seek  Mrs.  Erps. 
No  interest  nor  response  when  the  doctor  came,  or  while 
he  examined  her.  He  took  Maggie  aside.  "She's  very 
young.     How  long  has  she  been  married  ?  " 

"In  June  —  the  first  of  Jime." 

They  spoke  in  whispers.  When  he  was  going,  he 
repeated  what  he  had  most  impressed.  "No  fear  of  it 
happening  so  far  as  I  can  see.  She  doesn't  seem  in 
pain.  That  numbness?  Mental.  Her  mind  is  too 
occupied.  I  don't  think  movement  would  bring  it 
on;  but  don't  move  her  yet.  We  mustn't  run  risks. 
It  would  be  fatal  —  almost  certainly  fatal  if  it  happened. 
Another  shock  would  do  it;  nothing  else,  I  think. 
Well,  there's  no  likelihood  of  shock,  is  there  ?  You  can 
guard  against  that.  See  to  that  and  you've  no  need 
to  worry.  She  couldn't  possibly  live  through  it  in  her 
present  state.  Otherwise  —  why,  we'll  soon  be  on  the 
right  road  and  getting  strong  for  it.  I'll  look  in  to- 
night." 

This  was  in  the  passage,  and  with  Mrs.  Erps  in  wait- 
ing at  the  front  door  rehearsing  in  her  mind:  "As  I 
was  telling  you  when  you  come,  doctor,  'Excoose  me,' 
I  says  to  'er,  'excoose  me — '"  But  what  Mrs.  Erps 
overheard  caused  her  to  let  him  escape  and  to  say  instead 


96  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

to  Miss  Oxford,  "Oh,  the  pore  love  !    If  any  one  makes 
a  sahnd  to  shock  'er  —  not  if  I  knows  it,  they  don't." 

Mrs.  Erps  knew  quite  well  the  meaning  of  that  re- 
current "it"  in  the  doctor's  words. 


V 

But  it  was  not  in  Mrs.  Erps's  power  to  prevent  the 
shock  that  came. 

It  came  in  direct  train  of  action  from  that  "Yes, 
Roly"  that  Maggie  had  heard,  separated  from  it  by  the 
days  of  high  fever,  the  mind  wandering,  that  almost 
immediately  supervened.  As  one  that  falls  asleep  upon 
a  resolution  and  wakes  at  once  to  remember  it  and  to 
act  upon  it,  so,  the  fever  releasing  her  to  her  senses, 
Audrey  took  up  immediately  that  which  lay  in  those 
words  of  hers. 

She  had  fallen  into  a  natural  sleep  that  promised  the 
end  of  her  fever.  She  awoke,  and  directly  she  awoke 
sat  up  in  bed.  She  was  alone.  Only  the  one  thought 
was  in  her  mind ;  she  got  up  and  began  to  dress. 

The  resolution  of  her  mind  governed  the  extreme 
weakness  of  her  body.  She  was  no  more  aware  of  her 
feebleness  than  one  strung  up  in  battle  notices  a  wound 
not  immediately  crippling.  She  knew  exactly  what 
she  must  do.  She  found  her  purse  on  the  mantelpiece 
and  took  it  and  left  the  house  without  being  noticed  — 
or  thinking  to  escape  or  to  give  notice.  Only  that  one 
thought  occupied  her ;  a  few  yards  down  the  street  she 
met  a  cab  and  hailed  it.  "Burdon  House,  Mount 
Street,"  she  directed  the  driver. 

"Yes,  Roly,"  had  been  when  Roly,  visiting  her  more 
clearly,  more  real  than  any  other  figure  about  her  during 
that  numb  and  impassive  period  when  she  desired  to  be 


WHAT  THE  WINNER  BROUGHT  MRS.  ERPS     97 

quiet  in  order  to  talk  with  him,  had  told  her  to  go  to 
Gran,  to  comfort  Gran,  and  to  be  comforted. 


VI 

Old  butler  Noble  admitted  her.  Events  had  caused 
old  butler  Noble  to  be  considerably  shaken  in  his  wits. 
A  week  ago  the  door  would  have  been  closed  to  a  young 
woman  who  asked  for  Lady  Burdon  and  refused  her 
name.  To-day,  on  the  explanation,  "The  name  does 
not  matter.  Lady  Burdon  will  be  glad  to  see  me," 
it  was  held  open  and  the  \'isitor  taken  to  the  library. 

This  was  the  second  day  of  new  Lord  and  Lady  Bur- 
don's  visit  for  the  latter  to  make  Jane  Lady  Burdon's 
acquaintance.  Only  that  morning  old  butler  Noble 
had  made  the  mistake  of  turning  away  a  Miller's  Field 
friend  who  had  called  to  see  new  Lady  Burdon,  carrying 
out  a  promise  to  report  how  baby  Rollo,  left  behind,  was 
getting  on.  "Her  ladyship  is  seeing  no  one,"  Noble 
had  informed  her.  The  excellent  Miller's  Field  friend 
had  been  too  overawed  by  his  manner  to  explain  exactly 
whom  it  was  she  wished  to  see.  She  sent  a  note  of  ex- 
planation by  messenger.  Noble  dehvered  it  to  his 
mistress,  who  read  it  and  sent  him  with  it  to  new  Lady 
Burdon.  The  note  was  fooHshly  worded.  New  Lady 
Burdon,  ill  at  ease  in  this  house,  crimsoned  to  think  it 
had  been  read.  From  the  outset,  hostile  and  prepared 
for  hostility,  she  had  taken  a  sharp  dislike  to  this  old 
man-servant;  angry  and  mortified,  she  questioned  him 
and  spoke  to  him  as  he  was  unaccustomed  to  be  ad- 
dressed. 

It  was  beneath  the  lesson  of  this  incident  that  he  ad- 
mitted Audrey  without  question.  She  was  none  of 
his  mistress's  friends.     In  the  first  place  he  knew  all 


98  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

such ;  in.  the  second  they  did  not  call  at  the  impossible 
hour  of  half-past  six  in  the  evening,  nor  present  the 
strange  appearance  —  white,  not  very  steady,  faltering 
in  voice  —  that  she  bore. 

He  took  the  news  of  her  arrival  to  new  Lady  Burdon. 

"  Gave  no  name,  do  you  say  ?  " 

"She  said  your  ladyship  would  be  glad  to  see  her." 

Lady  Burdon  hesitated  a  moment.  She  tingled  with 
fresh  hostility  against  this  man  because  she  wondered 
whether  he  expected  her  to  accept  that  statement  or  to 
send  him  again  for  the  name.  She  did  not  know  and 
hated  him  the  more,  and  hated  all  the  fancied  resent- 
ment for  which  he  stood,  because  she  did  not  know. 

Her  mind  sought  a  way  out.  She  said  with  a  Httle 
laugh  :   "Oh,  I  think  I  know.     Very  weU." 

She  went  to  the  Ubrary. 


CHAPTER  V 

WHAT  AUDREY  BROUGHT  LADY  BUEDON 


It  was  very  dim  in  the  library.  Above  the  centre 
of  the  room  light  stood  in  soft  points  upon  a  high  chan- 
deHer.  A  fire  burnt  low  within  the  shelter  of  the  great 
hearth.     The  rest  was  shadow. 

Lady  Burdon  came  easily  into  the  room,  but  in  the 
doorway  stopped ;  and  Audrey,  who  had  made  a  forward 
movement,  prepared  words  on  her  Hps,  also  stopped. 
There  was  something  odd  about  this  girl  who  stood  there, 
Lady  Burdon  thought,  and  her  mind  ran  questing  the 
cause  of  some  strange  apprehension  that  somehow  was 
communicated  to  it.  There  was  something  wrong, 
Audrey  thought;  and  she  began  to  tremble.  For  a 
briefest  space,  that  was  a  world's  space  to  Audrey's 
mind  bewildered  and  to  Lady  Burdon's  mind  suspicious, 
as  they  went  hunting  through  it,  these  two  stood  thus, 
and  thus  regarded  one  another. 

It  was  told  of  this  library  at  Burdon  House  —  Mr. 
Amber's  "Lives"  record  it  —  that  in  the  days  when 
gentlemen  wore  swords  against  their  thighs,  a  duel 
was  fought  here,  that  the  thing  went  in  three  fierce  as- 
saults, each  ended  by  a  bloody  thrust  on  this  side  or  on 
that,  and  that  between  the  bouts  the  rivals  panted,  sick 
with  fatigue  and  hurt. 

Words  for  swords,  and  the  first  bout :  — 

^9 


100  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Lady  Burdon  closed  the  door.  She  went  a  step  to- 
wards Audrey  and  said,  "Yes?" 

Audrey,  with  fumbling  hands,  swaying  a  Httle  where 
she  stood :   "I  think  —  I  came  to  see  Lady  Burdon." 

Odd  her  look,  and  odd  her  tone,  and  strange  the  trem- 
bhng  that  visibly  possessed  her.  Lady  Burdon  was 
about  to  explain.  Her  mind  came  back  from  its  quest- 
ing Hke  one  that  cries  alarm  by  night  through  silent 
streets.  "Beware!"  it  cried  to  her.  "Beware!"  and 
for  her  explanation  she  substituted: 

"I  am  Lady  Burdon." 

The  first  thrust. 

Audrey  put  a  hand  against  a  chair  that  stood  beside 
her.  The  trembling  that  had  taken  her  when,  expecting 
to  see  Roly's  Gran,  this  stranger  had  appeared,  began 
to  shake  her  terribly  in  all  her  frame.  This  Lady  Bur- 
don ?  For  the  first  time  since  her  will  had  got  her  from 
her  bed  and  brought  her  here,  she  was  informed  how 
weak  she  was.  A  dreadful  physical  sickness  came  over 
her  and  all  the  room  became  unsteady. 

Respite  enough,  and  the  second  bout :  — 

Lady  Burdon  demanded  :   "Who  are  you,  please?" 

No  reply,  and  that  augmented  her  suspicion,  and 
she  came  on  again  :   "Who  are  you,  please  ?" 

Wave  upon  wave  that  dreadful  sickness  swept  over 
Audrey  and  set  her  brain  aswim.  Bewildered  thoughts, 
hke  frantic  arms  of  one  that  drowns,  tossed  up  upon  the 
flood,  and  Uke  such  arms  that  gesticulate  and  vanish, 
spun  there  a  dizzy  moment  and  spun  away :  This  Lady 
Burdon?  .  .  .  then  this  not  Roly's  house  .  .  .  then 
what?  .  .  .  then  where?  This  Lady  Burdon?  .  .  . 
then  all  her  Kfe  with  Roly  was  dream  .  .  .  had  never 
been  .  .  .  none  of  her  life  had  ever  been  .  .  .  what 
httd  been  then  ? 


WHAT  AUDREY  BROUGHT  LADY  BURDON  loi 

A  third  time:  "Who  are  you,  please?  Why  do  you 
not  answer  me?" 

She  made  an  effort.  She  said  very  pitiably:  "Oh, 
how  —  oh,  how  can  you  be  Lady  Burdon?" 

No  wound  —  only  the  merest  scratch,  but  increasing 
in  Lady  Burdon  the  dis-ease  that  had  come  to  her  on 
entering  the  room  and  had  heightened  at  every  moment. 

In  her  turn  it  was  hers  to  give  pause,  but  she  engaged 
quickly  for  the  third  bout. 

"I  see  you  do  not  understand,"  she  said. 

And  Audrey:  "Oh,  please  forgive  me.  No,  I  do  not 
understand ;  I  have  been  ill.     I  am  ill." 

"But  I  am  afraid  I  do  not  understand  you.  I  do  not 
understand  your  manner.  If  you  will  tell  me  who  you 
are  —  what  it  is  you  want  —  I  can  perhaps  explain." 

But  Audrey  only  looked  at  her.  Only  most  pitiable 
inquiry  was  in  her  eyes.  Lady  Burdon  read  their  in- 
quiry, that  same  "Oh,  how  can  you  be  Lady  Burdon?" 
and  the  question  and  the  silence  brought  vague,  unrea- 
soning alarm  in  violent  collision  with  her  suspicions. 
Anger  was  struck  out  of  their  conjunction.  She  said 
sharply : 

"You  must  answer  me,  please.  You  must  answer 
me.  What  is  the  matter?  I  am  asking  you  who  you 
are." 

Mr.  Amber's  account  of  the  duel  says  that  one  con- 
testant drove  the  other  the  length  of  the  room  and  had 
him  pinned  against  the  wall :  — 

Into  Audrey's  bewilderment,  the  dreadful  sickness 
and  the  trembhng  she  could  not  control,  these  sharp 
demands  came  like  numbing  blows  upon  one  in  the  trough 
of  the  sea  grappling  for  life.  When  Roly  had  come  to 
her  as  she  lay  stupefied  and  she  had  answered  him  "Yes, 
Roly,"  he  had  told  her  clearly  as  if  in  fact  he  had  stood 


102  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

beside  her,  what  she  should  say  to  Gran.  She  had  eome 
with  the  words  prepared.  They  suddenly  returned  to 
her  now. 

The  words  she  had  made  ready:  "I  am  Audrey — " 
she  said. 

Mr.  Amber's  account  of  the  duel  says  that  the  one 
contestant,  having  his  rival  pinned,  was  too  impetuous 
and  ran  upon  the  other's  sword :  — 

Lady  Burdon  said  :  "Audrey  ?  Do  you  say  Audrey  ? 
Are  you  known  here  ?  " 

And  ran  upon  the  other's  sword :  — 

"I  am  Audrey  —  I  am  Roly's  wife." 

II 

As  a  dreadful  blow  sends  the  stricken,  hands  to 
face,  staggering  this  way  and  that  on  nerveless,  aimless 
legs;  or  as  a  tipsy  man,  unbalanced  by  fresh  air,  will 
blunder  into  any  open  door,  so,  at  that  "I  am  Audrey — 
I  am  Roly's  wife"  —  Lady  Burdon's  mind  was  sent 
reeling,  fumbling  through  a  maze  of  spinning  scenes  — 
marriage  ?  and  what  then  ?  —  before  it  could  fix  itself 
to  realisation. 

She  stood  plucking  with  one  hand  at  the  fingers  of 
the  other ;    and  when  the  whirl  subsided  and  she  came 
dizzily  out  of  it  her  mind  was  leaden  and  the  first  words 
she  could  get  from  it  were  none  she  wanted. 
Her  voice  all  thick :  "He  was  not  married,"  she  said. 
The  reply,  very  gentle :  "We  did  not  tell  any  one." 
And  to  that  nothing  better  than  "Why?" 
"Roly  did  not  wish  it." 

Thick  and  heavy  still :  "Why  do  you  come  now?" 
And  Audrey  in  a  little  cry :  "Because  he  is  dead  !" 
Then  Lady  Burdon  said  dully :  "You  had  better  go," 


WHAT  AUDREY  BROUGHT  LADY  BURDON  103 

and  at  the  bewilderment  that  came  into  Audrey's  eyes 
repeated  more  strongly:  ''You  had  better  go  — 
quickly;"  and  then  "Quickly  !"  with  her  voice  run  up 
on  the  word,  and  her  hands  that  had  been  plucking  flung 
apart. 

Her  mind  was  over  its  numbness  and  through  the 
whirl  of  nightmare  meanings  in  that  "I  am  Roly's  wife  ;" 
and  it  came  out  of  them  as  one  shaken  by  a  fall  and 
strung  up  for  vengeance.  Marriage  !  Impossible  !  And 
she  a  fool  to  be  frightened  by  it  —  at  worst  a  horrid  after- 
math of  disgusting  conduct. 

"Quickly!"  she  cried  and  then  burst  out  with:  "I 
see  what  you  are  —  to  come  at  such  a  time  —  to  this 
house  of  mourning  —  he  scarcely  dead  —  with  such 
a  story  —  wicked  —  infamous  —  I  know,  I  see  now 
why  you  were  surprised  to  see  me  —  an  old  lady  you 
expected  —  grief -stricken  — " 

She  stopped,  achoke  for  breath,  and  Audrey  said: 
"Oh,  please  —  please." 

Misgiving,  that  subtle,  coward  spy  that  spies  the 
way  for  fear,  cast  its  net  over  Lady  Burdon.  The  plead- 
ing, gentle  air  —  no  flush  of  shame,  no  note  of  defiance 
hunted  her  mind  back  to  its  alarms.  And  Audrey 
said:  "He  did  not  wish  our  marriage  known;"  and 
at  "marriage"  misgiving  turned  and  shouted  fear  to 
follow. 

She  said  slowly:  "You  persist  marriage?  There 
are  proofs  of  marriage.     Where  are  your  proofs?" 

The  pleading  look  only  deepened:  "But  I  never 
thought—"  Audrey  said,  "  —but  I  never  thought—" 
She  swayed,  and  swayed  against  the  chair  she  held.  It 
supported  her.  "I  never  thought  I  would  not  be  be- 
lieved. Lady  Burdon  will  understand.  I  know  she 
will  understand.     If  I  may  see  her,  please  ..." 


£04  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"If  you  were  married  —  proofs." 

There  was  a  considerable  space  before  Audrey  an- 
swered.    Presently  she  said  very  faintly  : 

"I  am  very  ill  ...  I  am  very  ill  ...  I  can  bring 
proofs.  .  .  .  But  she  will  understand.  .  .  .  Please  let 
me  see  her.  .  .  .     Please,  please  ..." 

In  advertisement  of  her  state  her  eyelids  fluttered 
and  fell  upon  her  eyes  while  she  spoke.  Her  voice  was 
scarcely  to  be  heard. 

Her  condition  made  no  appeal  to  Lady  Burdon.  The 
simplicity  of  her  words,  her  simple  acceptance  of  the 
challenge  to  bring  proofs,  returned  Lady  Burdon  to  that 
dull  plucking  at  her  hands;  and  presently  she  turned 
and  went  heavily  across  the  room  and  through  the  door, 
closed  it  behind  her  and  went  a  few  paces  down  the  hall 
—  to  what  ?  At  that  question  she  stopped,  and  at  the 
answer  her  mind  gave  went  quickly  back  to  the  door 
and  stood  there  breathing  fast.  What  was  shut  in 
here?  A  monstrous  thing  come  to  strike  her  down  as 
suddenly  as  miracle  had  come  to  snatch  her  up  ?  And 
where  had  she  been  going?  To  publish  it?  To  impel 
the  horrible  fate  it  might  have  for  her  ?  To  say  to  old 
Lady  Burdon  and  to  Maurice  :  "There  is  a  woman  here 
who  says  she  was  married  to  Lord  Burdon?"  To  say 
what  would  spring  into  their  minds  as  it  tore  like  a 
wild  thing  at  hers:  —  "Yes,  if  marriage,  a  child  ...  an 
heir?"  At  thought  of  how  narrowly  she  had  escaped 
the  results  of  that  action,  she  trembled  as  one  trembles 
that  in  darkness  has  come  to  the  edge  of  a  cHff  and 
by  a  single  further  step  had  plunged  to  destruction ;  and 
at  imagination  of  the  bitterness,  the  humiliation  that 
would  be  hers  if  the  worst  were  realised  and  she  returned 
from  what  she  had  become  to  worse  than  she  had  been, 
she  writhed  in  torture  of  spirit  that  was  like  twisting 


WHAT  AUDREY  BROUGHT  LADY  BURDON  105 

poison  in  her  vitals.  All  her  plans,  all  her  dreams,  all 
her  sweet  foretasting  sprang  up  before  her,  mocking 
her;  all  the  intolerable  sympathy  of  her  friends,  all 
the  secret  laughter  it  would  hide,  came  at  her,  twisting 
her. 

Somewhere  in  the  house  a  door  opened  and  shut. 
She  put  a  hand  violently  to  her  throat,  as  though  the 
shock  of  the  sound  were  a  blow  that  struck  her  there. 
She  found  herself  braced  against  the  door,  guarding  it ; 
listening  for  footsteps,  and  strung  up  to  keep  away  who- 
ever came.  Silence  !  But  the  attitude  into  which  she 
had  sprung  informed  her  of  the  determination  that  had 
shaped  unperceived  beneath  the  tumult  of  her  thoughts. 
She  was  not  going  to  fall  beneath  the  blow  that  threat- 
ened her  !  When  she  knew  that,  she  was  calmer,  and 
set  herself  to  satisfy  her  fears.  What  was  shut  in  here  ? 
A  wanton.  .  .  .  Wanton  ?  Who  never  flushed,  never 
railed,  defied  ?  A  betrayed,  then.  Well,  what  was  that 
to  her,  and  how  was  she  concerned?  A  betrayed? 
Who  came  with  no  story  of  betrayal  that  might  or 
might  not  be,  but  v^dth  assertion  of  marriage  that  was 
capable  of  definite  proof  or  disproof  ?  Marriage  ?  Im- 
possible !  A  lie  !  Impossible  ?  There  came  to  her  rec- 
ollection of  that  strange  disappearance  of  which  Mr. 
Pemberton  had  told ;  was  marriage  the  secret  of  it  ? 
There  swept  back  to  her  that  vivid  and  hideous  night- 
mare on  the  very  night  of  the  news  when  she  had  cried 
"I  hold  !"  and  had  been  answered  :  "No,  you  do  not  — 
nay,  I  hold."  Was  that  foreboding?  There  flamed 
before  her  again  the  mock  of  her  plans,  the  humihation 
of  her  downfall.  She  struck  her  clenched  hands  to- 
gether ;  and  as  if  the  violent  action  caused  an  assembly 
of  her  arguments,  she  reduced  her  position  to  this: 
either  the  thing  was  true,  in  which  case  it  could  be 


io6  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

proved;  or  it  was  a  lie,  in  which  case  no  consideration 
recommended  her  to  do  other  than  keep  it  to  herself  and 
herself  stamp  upon  it. 

That  satisfied  her  and  she  reentered  the  room  to  act 
upon  it. 

Audrey  was  on  her  knees  by  the  chair.  The  sight 
shook  her  satisfaction.     Wanton  ?     Betrayed  ?    A  He  ? 

Audrey  turned  towards  her:  "I  have  been  praying," 
she  said.  She  got  to  her  feet  and  came  forward  a  step : 
"She  is  coming  to  see  me  ?" 

Lady  Burdon  said:  "I  have  told  her.  She  will  not 
see  you." 

She  was  committed.  She  stood  agonisingly  strung 
up  in  every  fibre,  as  one  that  waits  an  appalHng  catas- 
trophe. She  saw  Audrey  wring  her  hands  and  heard  her 
moan  "Oh  .  .  .  Oh!" 

She  heard  her  own  voice  say:  "You  can  bring  your 
proofs."  She  had,  as  it  were,  a  vision  of  herself  opening 
the  street  door  and  watching  Audrey  pass  her  and  go 
down  the  steps  and  out  of  sight.  She  was  only  actually 
returned  to  herself  when  she  found  herself,  as  one 
awaking  who  has  walked  in  sleep,  striving  to  makq 
her  trembhng  hands  close  the  latch  of  the  door, 


CHAPTER  VI 

ARRIVAL  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 


The  driver  of  a  four-wheeled  cab,  crawling  down 
Mount  Street,  pushed  along  his  horse  when  he  saw  Au- 
drey walking  with  very  slow  and  uncertain  steps  ahead 
of  him.  He  drew  into  pace  alongside  her  and  began  to 
repeat:  "Keb?  Keb,  miss  —  keb,  —  keb?"  with  a 
persistence  and  regularity  that  suggested  it  was  the 
normal  sound  of  his  breathing. 

She  stopped  and  stared  at  him  in  a  dazed  way.  He 
pulled  up  and  went  on  quite  contentedly:  "Keb?  — 
Keb,  miss  —  keb,  —  keb  ?  "  His  voice  and  his  keb  came 
presently  into  her  realisation.  There  returned  to  her 
knowledge  of  what  she  purposed.  Her  thoughts  seemed 
to  her  to  be  drifting  shapes,  and  this  one  had  floated 
away  and  she  had  been  trying  to  reach  it  —  hanging 
there  just  above  her  —  while  she  stared  at  him.  She 
gave  him  the  address  of  the  Knightsbridge  flat  and  pres- 
ently was  driving  there  and  presently  going  up  the  stairs, 
very  slowly,  taking  her  key  from  her  purse,  and  then 
entering. 

The  flat  was  in  extraordinary  confusion.  She  did  not 
notice.  The  woman  who  came  daily  to  attend  her 
wants  had  come  twice  to  find  her  not  returned,  and  a 
third  time  with  a  gentleman  friend  (on  tiptoe),  taking 
a  stealthy  and  permanent  departure  an  hour  later  with 

S07 


io8  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

everything  that  could  be  conveniently  carried.  The 
back  of  a  drawer  in  a  bureau  had  not  received  this  lady's 
attention.  It  contained  all  that  Audrey  had  come  to 
seek :  a  box  of  carved  wood,  picked  up  on  the  Continent. 
Those  two  letters  Roly  had  given  her  for  Mr.  Pember- 
ton  and  Gran  were  here.  Her  mind  had  turned  to  them 
when  she  had  reaHsed  the  thing  that  had  never  occurred 
to  her :  that  she  would  not  be  beHeved.  Here  also  was 
her  marriage  certificate  and  all  the  letters  Roly  had 
written  her  —  before  marriage  and  from  India. 

She  took  up  the  box  and  began  to  retrace  her  steps. 
She  had  scarcely  got  down  the  stairs  when  dizziness 
seized  her  again.  The  dreadful  sickness  and  the  trem- 
bUng  that  the  shock  of  her  first  encounter  with  Lady 
Burdon  had  caused  her  had  been  stamped  out  by  the 
final  blow  that  made  her  wring  her  hands  and  cry  "Oh 
.  .  .  oh  !"  and  had  sent  her  numbed  from  the  house  and 
carried  her  numbed  to  this  point.  Her  physical  senses 
had  been  drugged,  just  as  they  had  been  hypnotised 
by  the  instruction  to  which  she  had  answered  "Yes, 
Roly."  Now  they  were  suddenly  released  from  the 
kindness  of  the  drug.  Dizziness  —  and  while  all  things 
spun  about  her  —  pain.  It  caught  her  with  a  violence 
so  immense  that  she  believed  her  body  could  not  contain 
it  and  would  go  asunder.  It  drove  her,  as  it  seemed 
to  her,  through  unconsciousness  and  into  a  state  in 
which  she  met  it  again  with  a  quality  in  its  sharpness 
that  she  knew  for  death,  as  if  she  recognised  death. 
It  dropped  her  back  from  where  she  had  seen  death, 
through  the  degree  of  its  first  immensity,  and  down  to  a 
gnawing  that  told  her  it  was  gathering  force  to  rush  up 
again  and  this  time  leave  her  there  —  gone.  In  that 
respite  she  got  to  the  cab.  She  would  die  at  the  next 
onslaught  —  Maggie  !    If  Maggie  could  hold  her  wiien 


ARRIVAL  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR      109 

it  came  !  She  did  not  know  the  address  in  the  Hollo- 
way  Road,  but  knew  it  was  there,  and  a  butcher's  with 
a  strange  name  —  Utter  —  had  caught  her  attention 
opposite  when  she  left  the  house.  She  tried  to  tell  the 
driver,  but  her  condition  overcame  her  speech.  He  saw 
her  state  and  jumped  down  to  her,  and  she  called  tre- 
mendously upon  herself  and  effected  the  words.  He 
more  Hfted  than  helped  her  in,  and  she  continued  to 
hold  herself  until  he  got  back  to  his  box,  then  collapsed 
groaning. 

The  cabman  pulled  up  opposite  the  establishment  of 
Mr.  Utter  and  had  scarcely  stopped  his  horse  when  from 
Mrs.  Erps's  house  came  Mrs.  Erps,  plunging  down  the 
steps,  and  Miss  Oxford,  who  stopped  at  the  entrance, 
not  daring  to  come  on.  Mrs.  Erps  peered  through  the 
cab  window  and  then  called  back  to  Miss  Oxford. 
"Told  yer  it  was.  Safe  and  sahnd !"  and  began  to  tug 
at  the  handle  and  sharply  addressed  the  cabman :  "Ho, 
ain't  you  got  a  nasty  stiff  door !"  and  cried  through  the 
window:  "Why,  there  you  are,  my  dear!  Popping 
off  Hke  you  hadn't  ought  to,  give  us  a  fair  ole  turn  !" 
and  flung  open  the  door  and  said,  "Ho,  dear!"  and 
turned  a  frightened  face  to  Maggie,  come  beside 
her. 

The  open  door  revealed  how  Audrey  was  collapsed, 
and  showed  the  hue  of  ashes  that  her  face  had,  and  gave 
the  groaning  that  came  from  her. 

Miss  Oxford  went  to  her.  "Audrey !  .  .  .  dying ! 
She  is  dying  !" 

By  common  understanding  they  began  to  try  to  carry 
her  out.  The  cabman  leant  over  from  his  box  and  pres- 
ently saw  Mrs.  Erps  come  backing  out  with  violent 
movements  and  suddenly  had  her  fist  shaken  in  his 
surprised  face.     "  'Old  your  old  'orse,  carng  yer  ! "     Mrs. 


no  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Erps  cried  furiously.  "Joltin'  of  us!  'Old  your  old 
catsmeat,  carng  yer!"  She  plunged  round  to  the 
further  door,  and  through  that  they  lifted  her  whose 
groaning  terrified  them  utterly,  carried  her  up-stairs, 
and  for  the  second  time  she  was  laid  on  the  cleeng 
blenkits,  well  haired,  eight  an  six  and  find  yer 
own. 

All  Mrs.  Erps's  breath — no  policeman  to  assist  her  — 
was  this  time  required  for  the  exertion.  But  when 
their  burden  was  laid  she  voiced  the  extremity  to  which 
it  was  clearly  come.  *"Ad  er  shock,  she  'as,"  said  Mrs. 
Erps.     "Some  one's  done  it  on  'er." 

"Oh,  bring  the  doctor,"  Miss  Oxford  cried.  "Quick  ! 
Quick  !     Oh,  my  God  .  .  .  my  God  !" 

She  did  what  she  could  while  Mrs.  Erps  was  gone. 
She  was  praying,  when  her  prayer  was  so  far  answered 
that  Audrey  recognised  her.  "Maggie  ..."  and  then 
"I  am  dying  —  forgive,"  and  then  caught  up  in  her 
pains  again  while  Maggie  cried:  "Don't!  Don't! 
It  is  for  you  to  forgive  me ;  you  will  be  all  right  soon  — 
very  soon."  The  pains  drew  off  a  little.  Audrey  be- 
gan to  speak  very  faintly.  "I  went  to  Lady  Burdon  —  " 
Very  feebly  she  told  what  had  happened  and  Maggie, 
who  had  begged  her,  "Darling,  don't  talk  —  don't 
worry,"  listened  as  one  that  is  held  aghast.  When 
the  slow  words  failed,  she  did  not  at  once  realise  that 
Audrey's  voice  had  stopped.  Mrs.  Erps  and  the  doctor 
foimd  her  kneeling  by  the  still  form  with  strangely 
staring,  unweeping  eyes. 

"She  has  had  a  shock,"  the  doctor  began. 

"They  have  killed  her,"  :Miss  Oxford  said. 

Bending  over  the  patient  he  did  not  notice  her  words 
nor  the  intensity  of  their  tone ;  and  there  began  to  come 
Very  quickly  a  dreadful  urgency  that  caused  agony  of 


ARRIVAL  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR      iii 

grief  to  override  the  agony  of  hate  that  had  possessed 
her. 

There  was  a  thin,  new  cry  went  up  in  the  room :  and 
that  was  life  newly  come.  And  there  was  heavy  breath- 
ing with  dreadful  pause  at  each  expiration's  end  and  then 
the  straining  upward  climb  :  and  that  was  Hfe  fluttering 
to  be  gone.  Longer  the  pauses  grew  and  harsher  the 
upward  breath.  Loud  the  thin  cry  struck,  in,  and  as 
though  it  called  that  fleeting  Hfe,  and  as  though  that 
fleeting  hfe,  in  the  act  of  springing  away,  turned  its 
head  at  the  sound,  Audrey  opened  her  eyes. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  question  in  them.  Miss  Oxford 
bent  closely  over  her :  "A  boy,  my  darHng." 

She  seemed  to  smile  before  she  died. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ENLISTMENT   OF   THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

That  day  of  Audrey's  death  was  in  two  minds  at  two 
breakfasts  in  different  quarters  of  London  on  a  morning 
some  while  later.  In  the  Mount  Street  house  Jane 
Lady  Burdon,  starting  in  an  hour  to  make  her  home 
with  her  sister  in  York,  was  reading  to  Lord  and  Lady 
Burdon  a  letter  just  received  from  India.  It  was  a 
sympathetic  note  from  the  officer  who  had  been  with 
her  Roly  when  he  fell.  "'His  last  words,'"  she  read 
aloud  with  faltering  lips,  '''were:  Tell  Gran  to  love 
Audrey.  It  was  difficult  to  catch  them,  but  I  think  that 
was  it.'" 

Jane  Lady  Burdon  laid  down  the  letter  and  smiled 
feebly.     "They  have  no  meaning  for  me,"  she  said. 

And  Lord  Burdon  :   "NelUe  !    What's  up,  old  girl  ?" 

Lady  Burdon  struggled  with  the  dreadful  agitation 
the  words  had  caused  her.  They  had  meaning  for  her. 
"7  am  Audrey  —  I  am  Roly^s  wife." 

"So  sad,"  she  exclaimed,  "so  sad  —  excuse  me  —  I 
—  "  She  rose  shakily  and  went  from  the  room.  After 
two  days  of  suspense  she  had  thought  that  hideous  alarm 
defeated  and  disproved.  What  now?  And  what  had 
she  done  ? 

The  other  breakfast  was  at  Mrs.  Erps's  —  also  im- 
mediately before  a  journey.  "No  one,"  Mrs.  Erps  had 
said,  "no  one  hadn't  oughter  travel  on  a  nempty  stom- 
ach," and  had  forced  Miss  Oxford  to  the  table  before  the 

112 


I 


ENLISTMENT  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR     113 

start  for  Little  Letham  and  "Post  Ofl&c."  "1  know 
you've  had  bitter  trouble  as  loved  the  pretty  dear  me- 
self  ever  since  'Excoose  me,'  I  says  to  'er,  'excoose  me/ 
as  I've  told  yer.  An'  Gord  alone  knows  I  know  what 
trouble  is,  as  'ad  twings  of  me  own  pop  off  in  one  mumf . 
But  you've  got  the  Hving  for  to  think  of.  Same  as  I 
'ad  my  ole  man,  you've  got  this  blessed  ingfang  what 
never  know'd  a  muwer's  breast  and  took  to  the  bottle 
like  nothing  I  never  did  see." 

And  to  the  blessed  "infang"  reposing  in  her  arms 
while  she  talked:  "Didn't  yer,  yer  saucy  sossidge? 
That's  what  you  are,  yer  know  —  a  saucy  sossidge. 
Ho,  yes  yer  are.  No  use  yer  giving  answer  back  ter  me, 
yer  know.  A  saucy,  saucy  sossidge,  wot  I  should  cook 
up  with  mashed  if  I  had  me  way  with  yer,  bless  yer." 

Maggie  scarcely  heard ;  but  there  was  one  sentence 
of  Mrs.  Erps  that  joined  her  thoughts:  "You've  got 
the  living  for  to  think  of."  Yes,  she  had  that  —  and 
the  dead  to  revenge.  "They  have  killed  her,"  she  had 
cried  to  the  doctor.  Through  the  long  night,  when  she 
knelt  beside  the  still  figure,  that  thought  had  burned 
within  her  and  refused  her  tears.  It  grew  to  an  intoler- 
able agony  that  pressed  upon  her  brain  as  though  a 
band  of  steel  were  there.  She  understood  what  had 
bewildered  Audrey  —  who  it  had  been  that  had  said 
"I  am  Lady  Burdon."  Her  imagination  pictured  the 
woman.  An  orgasm  of  most  terrible  hate  possessed 
her,  increasing  that  dreadful  pressure  on  her  brain,  and 
suddenly  something  seemed  to  her  to  have  given  way 
beneath  the  pressure. 

Hate  or  passion  of  that  degree  never  filled  her  again. 
She  was  strangely  quiet  in  manner  when  Mrs.  Erps  came 
to  her  in  the  morning,  strangely  quiet  at  the  funeral  in 
Highgate  Cemetery  while  Mrs.  Erps  wept  in  loud  emo- 


114  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

tion,  and  always  quite  quiet  in  mind.  The  child  was 
going  to  Uve,  she  was  somehow  fully  assured  of  that, 
and  she  was  not  going  to  give  him  up  —  her  Audrey's 
child  —  as,  if  she  spoke,  she  might  have  to  give  him  up. 
He  was  going  to  live  with  her  at  "Post  Ofl&c"  and  take 
his  mother's  place ;  and  one  day.  .  .  .  They  had  taken 
Audrey  from  her.  One  day  she  would  return  to  them 
Audrey's  son.  "I  am  Lady  Burdon"  had  murdered 
Audrey.  One  day,  when  "I  am  Lady  Burdon"  was 
secure  and  comfortable  in  her  possessions,  and  had  for- 
gotten Audrey,  Audrey's  son  should  avenge  his 
mother.  .  .  . 

Nothing  could  go  wrong,  Miss  Oxford  thought.  She 
went  through  all  the  proofs  in  the  carved  box.  Nothing 
was  wanting.  One  day  she  would  hand  them  to  him 
—  and  then  ! 

She  wrote  to  her  friend,  Miss  Purdie,  at  Little  Letham, 
who  had  been  taking  care  of  ''Post  Ofiic"  for  her  and 
told  her  —  for  the  village  information  —  that  Audrey 
had  lost  her  husband,  and,  on  the  shock,  had  died,  in 
giving  birth  to  a  son.  "I  have  called  him  Percival  — 
his  father's  name  —  Percival  Redpath. 


)) 


((' 


'Look  arter  yerself,"  cried  Mrs.  Erps,  as  the  train 
drew  out  of  Waterloo.  "Look  arter  yerself.  Can't  not 
look  arter  him  if  yer  don't  —  and  'e  '11  want  lookin' 
arter,  'e  will.  'E's  going  ter  be  a  knockaht,  that's 
what  'e's  going  to  be,  ain't  yer,  yer  saucy  sossidge  ! 
Sossidge !     Goo'by,  sossidge.     Goo'by.  .  .  ." 


BOOK   THREE 

BOOK  OF  THE  HAPPY,  HAPPY  TIME.    THE 
ELEMENT   OF  YOUTH 


BOOK   THREE 

BOOK  OF  THE  HAPPY,   HAPPY  TIME.     THE 
ELEMENT   OF  YOUTH 

CHAPTER   I 

PERCIVAL  HAS  A  PEEP  AT  THE  'nORMOUS 


Young  Percival  was  seven  —  rising  eight  —  when  he 
first  saw  Burdon  Old  Manor.  Miss  Oxford  had  taken 
him  for  a  walk,  and  they  were  in  the  direction  of  the 
Manor  grounds,  a  locaUty  she  commonly  avoided,  when 
"There's  a  cart  coming  ! "  he  warned  her.  He  had  lagged 
behind,  exploring  in  a  dry  ditch ;  and  he  raced  up  to  her 
with  the  news,  catching  her  hand  and  drawing  her  to 
the  hedge,  for  she  had  been  walking  in  the  middle  of 
the  road,  occupied  with  her  thoughts. 

Percival  had  learnt  to  be  accustomed  to  long  silences 
in  his  Aunt  Maggie  and  to  rescue  her  from  them  when 
need  arose.  They  were  famihar,  too,  to  all  the  vil- 
lagers and  to  the  "help"  who  was  now  required  for  the 
domestic  work  of  "Post  Ofhc."  Not  the  same  but  a 
very  different  Miss  Oxford  had  returned  to  "Post  Offic" 
seven  years  ago,  bringing  the  news  of  poor,  pretty  Miss 
Audrey's  loss  of  husband  and  death,  and  bringing  the 
Kttle  mite  that  was  born  orphan,  bless  him.  A  very 
different  Miss  Oxford,  for  whose  characteristic  alert- 
ness there  was  substituted  a  profound  quietness,  a  notable 

117 


ii8  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

air  of  absence,  preoccupation.  It  was  held  by  the  vil- 
lagers that  she  had  gone  a  little  bit  strange-like.  Her 
sister's  death,  it  was  thought,  had  made  her  a  little  touched- 
like.  The  "help,"  a  gaunt  and  stern  creature  named 
Honor,  who  largely  devoted  herself  to  bringing  up  Perci- 
val  on  a  system  of  copy-book  and  devotional  maxims 
which  had  become  considerably  mixed  in  her  mind,  called 
her  mistress's  lapses  into  long  silence  symptoms  of  an 
*' incline,"  and  in  kindly,  rough  fashion  sought  to  rally 
her  from  them.  Percival,  nearest  the  truth,  called  them 
"thinking."  When  Aunt  Maggie  lapsed  into  such  a 
mood,  he  would  often  stand  by  her,  watching  her  face 
doubtfully  and  rather  wistfully,  with  his  head  a  little 
on  one  side.  Presently  he  would  give  a  Httle  sigh  and 
run  off  to  his  play.  It  was  as  though  he  puzzled  to  know 
what  occupied  her,  as  though  he  had  some  dim,  unshaped 
idea  which,  while  he  stood  watching,  he  tried  to  for- 
mulate —  and  the  then  little  sigh :  he  could  not  dis- 
cover it  —  yet. 

What  was  clear  was  that  nothing  ever  aroused  Aunt 
Maggie  from  her  strange  habit  of  mind;  and  that  at 
least  is  symptom  of  a  dangerous  melancholy.  What  was 
plain  was  that  her  fits  of  complete,  of  utter  abstraction, 
embraced  her  like  a  sudden  physical  paralysis  in  the 
midst  of  even  an  energetic  task  or  an  absorbing  conver- 
sation; and  that  at  least  is  sign  of  a  lesion  somewhere 
in  the  faculty  of  self-control.  She  divided  her  time  be- 
tween those  periods  of  "thinking"  and  an  intense  de- 
votion to  Percival ;  and  the  two  phases  acted  directly 
one  upon  the  other.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  loving  oc- 
cupation with  the  child,  that,  perhaps  at  some  look  in 
his  eyes,  perhaps  at  some  note  in  his  voice,  abstraction 
would  suddenly  strike  down  upon  her ;  it  was  from  the 
very  depth  of  such  abstraction  that  she  would  suddenly 


PERCIVAL   HAS   A   PEEP   AT   'NORMOUS     119 

start  awake  and  go  to  find  Percival  or,  he  being  near 
her,  would  take  him  almost  violently  into  her  arms. 


II 

In  characteristic  keeping  with  this  habit,  her  action 
when  now  he  ran  to  her  and  drew  her  from  the  roadway 
with  his  cry,  "There's  a  cart  coming!  A  cart,  Aunt 
Maggie!"  Her  grey,  gentle  face  and  her  sad  eyes  ir- 
radiated with  a  sudden  colour  and  sudden  light  that 
advertised  the  affection  with  which,  standing  behind  him 
to  let  the  cart  pass,  she  stooped  down  to  him  and  kissed 
his  glowing  cheek  —  "Would  I  have  been  run  over,  do 
you  think  ?" 

Percival  was  eagerly  awaiting  the  excitement  of  see- 
ing the  cart  come  into  view  around  the  bend  whence  it 
sounded.  But  he  stretched  up  his  hands  to  fondle  hei 
face.  "Well,  I  believe  you  would,  you  know,"  he  de- 
clared. "Of  course  they'd  have  shouted,  but  suppose 
the  horse  was  bobbery  and  wouldn't  stop  ?" 

Aunt  Maggie  feigned  alarm  at  this  dreadful  possibil- 
ity. "Oh,  but  you're  all  right  with  me,"  Percival  re- 
assured her.  He  had  a  quaint  habit  of  using  phrases 
of  hers.  "I  keep  an  eye  on  you,  you  know,  even  when 
I'm  far  behind." 

She  laughed  and  looked  at  him  proudly ;  and  she  had 
reason  for  her  pride.  At  seven  —  rising  eight  —  Perci- 
val had  fairly  won  through  the  vicissitudes  of  a  mother- 
less infancy.  He  had  come  through  a  lusty  babyhood 
and  was  sprung  into  an  alert  and  beautiful  childhood, 
dowered  of  his  father's  strong  loins,  of  his  mother's 
gentle  fairness,  that  caused  heads  to  turn  after  him  as 
he  raced  about  the  village  street. 

Heads  turned   from   the  cart  that  now  approached 


120  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

and  passed.  It  proved  to  be  a  wagonette.  Two  women 
and  a  man  sat  among  the  many  packages  behind.  On 
the  box-seat,  next  the  driver,  was  a  lanky  youth,  pecul- 
iarly white  and  unhealthy  of  visage.  Percival  stared  at 
him.  In  envy  perhaps  of  the  sturdy  and  glowing  health 
of  the  starer,  the  lanky  youth  scowled  back,  and  lower- 
ing his  jaw  pulled  a  grimace  with  an  ease  and  repulsive- 
ness  that  argued  some  practice.  Turning  in  his  seat,  he 
allowed  Percival  to  appreciate  the  distortion  to  the  full. 

This  was  that  same  Egbert  Hunt,  whose  power  of 
grimace  opened,  as  it  continues,  our  history. 

Percival  directed  an  interested  face  to  Aunt  Maggie. 
*'Is  that  a  clown  sitting  up  there?"  he  asked  her.  He 
had  accompanied  Aunt  Maggie  into  Great  Letham  on 
the  previous  day,  and  had  been  much  engaged  by  the 
chalked  countenance  of  a  clown,  grinning  from  posters 
of  a  coming  circus. 

Aunt  Maggie  answered  him  with  her  thoughts:  "I 
think  they  must  be  going  to  the  Manor,  dear.  I  expect 
they  are  Lord  Burdon's  servants." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  he  was  a  clown,"  Percival  answered. 
But  a  few  paces  farther  up  the  road,  stepping  into  it 
from  a  footpath  over  the  fields,  a  Httle  old  gentleman  was 
met,  whom  Aimt  Maggie  greeted  as  Mr.  Amber,  and 
who  verified  her  opinion. 

"The  family  is  coming  down  the  day  after  to-morrow," 
Mr.  Amber  said,  "as  I  was  telling  you  last  week.  Ser- 
vants are  to  arrive  to-day.  I  think  I  saw  them  in  the 
wagonette  as  I  came  down  the  path.  And  how  are  you, 
Master  Percival  ?    I  hope  you  are  very  well." 

Percival  put  his  small  hand  into  the  extended  palm. 
"I'm  very  well,  Mr.  Amber,  thank  you.  One  of  them 
was  a  clown,  you  know.  He  made  a  face  at  me  —  like 
this." 


PERCIVAL  HAS   A   PEEP   AT  'NORMOUS     121 

"God  bless  my  soul,  did  he  indeed?"  Mr.  Amber 
exclaimed. 

"Yes,  he  did,"  said  Percival.  "Just  make  it  back 
again  to  me,  will  you  please,  so  I  can  see  if  I  showed 
you  properly?" 

But  Mr.  Amber  declined  the  experiment.  "The  wind 
might  change  while  I  was  doing  it,"  he  said,  "and  then 
I  should  be  like  that  always." 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  mind,"  Percival  declared. 

"But  I  should,"  said  Mr.  Amber,  and  poked  Percival 
with  his  stick. 

They  were  very  close  friends,  Percival  and  this  bent 
old  hbrarian,  permanently  located  at  Burdon  Old  Manor 
in  those  days  and  a  constant  visitor  at  "Post  Offic" 
for  the  purpose  of  enjoying  the  affection  displayed  in 
his  silvery  old  face  as  it  watched  the  glowing  young  coun- 
tenance upturned  to  it.  "But  I  should,"  said  he ;  "and 
what  would  they  think  of  me  in  there  ?" 

Percival  turned  about.  They  had  reached  the  boundary 
of  the  Manor  grounds  and  he  pointed  through  the  trees. 
"Is  that  where  you  Hve,  Mr.  Amber  ?" 

"Yes,  I  Hve  in  there.  Look  here,  now,  here's  a  nice 
thing  !  You're  growing  up  nearly  as  big  as  me  and 
you've  never  been  to  see  me.  That's  not  friendly,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  but  I've  wanted  to,  you  know,"  Percival  cried. 
"We  don't  often  come  this  way,  you  see,  do  we.  Aunt 
Maggie?" 

He  bounded  across  the  road  to  squint  through  the 
wooden  paHng  that  surrounds  the  Manor  park,  and  Mr. 
Amber  gave  a  Uttle  sigh  and  turned  to  Aunt  Maggie. 

"How  Percival  grows.  Miss  Oxford  !  And  what  a 
picture,  what  a  picture  !  You  know,  he  recalls  to  me 
walking  these  lanes  twenty  years  ago,  with  just  his  count- 


122  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

erpart  in  looks  and  spirits  and  charm  —  ah,  well !  dear 
me,  dear  me!"  And  he  began  to  mumble  to  himself 
in  the  fashion  of  old  people  whose  thoughts  run  more 
easily  in  the  past  than  in  the  present,  and  to  walk  around 
poking  with  his  stick  in  a  fashion  that  was  his  own. 

He  referred  to  Roly,  Aunt  Maggie  knew,  "You 
never  forget  him,  do  you?"  she  said  gently.  She  also 
was  devoted  to  a  memory.     *' You  never  forget  him  ?  " 

*'No  —  no,"  said  Mr.  Amber,  poking  around  and  not 
looking  at  her.     "Certainly  not  —  certainly  not." 

Percival's  voice  broke  in  upon  them,  announcing  his 
observations  through  the  fence.  "I  say,  you've  got  a 
lovely  garden  to  play  in,  you  know,"  he  called. 

They  turned  from  thoughts  that  had  a  common  ele- 
ment to  the  bright  young  spirit  in  whom  those  thoughts 
found  a  not  dissimilar  relief. 

"Well,  it's  not  exactly  my  garden,"  Mr.  Amber  re- 
plied in  his  deliberate  way.  "I  hve  there  just  Hke 
Honor  lives  with  you.  She  looks  after  the  cooking  and 
I  look  after  the  books,  eh  ?  Would  you  Hke  to  see  my 
books?" 

"Picture  books?" 

"Why,  yes,  some  have  got  pictures.  Yes,  there  are 
pictures  in  some.  And  fine  big  rooms,  Percival.  You 
would  like  to  see  them." 

Percival  turned  an  excited  face  to  Aunt  Maggie,  and 
Aunt  Maggie  smiled.  He  took  Mr.  Amber's  hand. 
"Thank  you  very  much  indeed,"  he  said.  "  I  tell  you 
what,  then.  I  will  see  your  books  and  then  I  think  you 
will  let  me  play  in  your  garden,  please,  if  you  please?" 

Mr.  Amber  declared  that  this  was  a  very  fair  bargain. 
"Come  in  and  have  some  tea.  Miss  Oxford.  Mrs.  Fer- 
ris will  be  glad  to  see  you.  She  finds  housekeeping  very 
dull  work,  I  am  afraid,  with  only  me  to  look  after." 


PERCIVAL  HAS   A   PEEP   AT  'NORMOUS     123 

Aunt  Maggie  did  not  reply  immediately.  Percival 
looked  at  her  anxiously.  He  observed  signs  of  ''think- 
ing," and  thinking  might  be  fatal  to  this  most  engaging 
proposition.  "If  you  possibly  could,  Aunt  Maggie!" 
he  pleaded. 

But  it  was  Mr.  Amber's  further  argument  that  per- 
suaded her.  His  words  acutely  entered  the  matter 
with  which  she  was  occupied.  "You  know,  Percival 
must  be  the  only  soul  in  the  countryside  that  hasn't  seen 
the  Manor,"  he  urged.  "It  was  the  regular  custom  for 
any  one  who  hked  to  come  up  in  the  old  days.  You 
recollect  the  Tenant  Teas  in  the  summer?  Why,  it's 
his  right,  I  declare." 

A  little  colour  showed  on  her  cheeks.  "Yes,  it  is  his 
right,"  she  said. 

in 

Percival  was  to  enjoy  another  right  before  the  day  was 
out.  The  decision  to  accept  Mr.  Amber's  invitation 
once  made,  he  had  whooped  ahead  through  the  Manor 
gates  and  flashed  up  the  long  drive  at  play  with  a  game 
of  his  own  among  the  flanking  trees.  A  noble  turn  in 
the  avenue  brought  him  within  astonished  gaze  of  the 
house,  and,  very  flushed  in  the  cheeks,  he  came  racing 
back  to  his  elders. 

"I  say,  it's  a  perfectly  'normous  house  you  live  in, 
Mr.  Amber." 

"Aha!"  cries  old  Mr.  Amber,  highly  pleased.  "I 
knew  you  would  like  it.  Master  Percival !" 

"Why,  I  call  it  a  castle T^  Percival  declares. 

They  turn  the  corner  and  Mr.  Amber  points  with  his 
stick.  "Well,  you're  not  quite  wrong,  either.  That 
part  —  the  East  Wing  we  call  that  —  you  see  how  old 


124  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

that  is  ?  Almost  a  castle  once,  that.  See  those  funny 
little  marks  ?  Used  to  be  holes  there  to  fire  guns  through. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Percival's  face  proclaims  what  he  thinks  —  and  his 
voice,  deep  mth  awe,  says,  "Fire  them  bang?" 

"Bang?     I  should  think  so,  indeed  ! " 

"Who  at?" 

"Aha  !  Strange  httle  boys,  perhaps.  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it,  if  you'll  come  and  see  me  sometimes." 

Percival  announces  that  he  will  come  every  single  day, 
and  runs  eagerly  up  the  five  broad  steps  that  lead  to  the 
great  oak  door,  now  standing  ajar,  and  halts  wonderingly 
upon  the  threshold  to  gaze  around  the  spacious  hall  and 
up  at  the  gallery  that  encircles  it. 

Aunt  Maggie  stops  so  abruptly  and  gives  so  strange  a 
catch  at  her  breath  that  Mr.  Amber  turns  to  look  at  her. 
Following  her  eyes,  and  reading  what  he  fancies  in  them, 
"Why,  he  does  make  a  brave  little  picture,  standing 
there,  doesn't  he  ?  "  Mr.  Amber  says. 

Her  faint  smile  seems  to  assent.  But  she  sees  the 
child,  framed  in  the  fine  doorway,  as  his  father's  son  sur- 
ve3dng  for  the  first  time  the  domain  that  is  his  own. 

They  join  him  on  the  threshold  and  he  turns  to  them 
round-eyed.  "Why,  it's  simply  'normous  !"  he  declares. 
"Aunt  Maggie,  come  and  look  with  me.  It's  simply 
'normous." 

"Told  you  so!"  cries  Mr.  Amber,  vastly  delighted. 
"Fine  big  rooms,  I  said,  didn't  I,  now?" 

"'Normous!"  Percival  breathes.  "Per-feck-ly  'nor- 
mous to  me,  you  know ;"  and  after  a  huge  sigh  of  wonder, 
pointing  to  the  gallery,  "  Wliat's  that  funny  httle  bridge 
up  there  for?" 

"Bridge!"    says    Mr.    Amber    almost    indignantly. 
Gallery,  we  call  that.     Goes  right  around  the  hall, 


IC 


PERCIVAL  HAS   A   PEEP   AT  'NORMOUS     125 

see  ?  Except  this  end.  Bridge !  Bless  my  soul, 
bridge  !"  For  the  moment  he  is  really  almost  put  out 
at  this  slight  done  to  a  celebrated  feature  of  the  Manor, 
his  concern  betraying  the  profound  devotion  to  the  house, 
the  sense  of  his  own  incorporation  with  it,  that  always 
characterises  him  when  beneath  its  roof.  That  devo- 
tion and  that  sense  have  deepened  greatly  during  these 
years  in  which  the  new  Burdons  have  neglected  the 
Manor  and  he,  li\ang  in  the  past,  has  growTi  to  feel  him- 
self the  custodian  of  the  memories  as  he  is  the  author  of 
the  "Lives"  of  the  house  of  Burdon.  He  has  a  trick, 
indeed,  as  Percival  comes  to  know,  of  speaking  of  "we" 
when  he  talks  of  himself  in  connection  with  the  Manor. 
He  uses  it  now.  "We  are  very  proud  of  that  gallery, 
I  can  tell  you.  Do  you  know  we've  had  —  well,  well, 
never  mind  about  that  now.  Come  along,  I'll  take  you 
all  over  and  up  there,  too.  Come  along.  Miss  Oxford. 
We'll  find  Mrs.  Ferris  first." 

Mr.  Amber  takes  Percival's  hand  and  starts  up  the 
hall;  and  then  pulls  him  up  short  again,  but  with  an 
exaggerated  concern  this  time.  "But  here,  I  say,  young 
man,  what's  this  ?  Cap  on !  Good  gracious,  you 
can't  wear  your  cap  here,  you  know  !" 

Percival  goes  almost  as  red  as  the  jolly  red  fisher  cap 
he  wears,  and  pulls  it  off,  much  abashed.  He  explains 
his  breach  of  manners.  "I  always  do  take  it  off  in  a 
house.  But  this  doesn't  feel  Uke  a  house  to  me,  you 
know;  it's  simply  'normous  !" 

"Ah,  but  that's  a  strict  rule  of  ours  here.  No  one 
but  a  Burdon  may  be  capped  in  the  hall ;  a  tradition  we 
call  it.  There  was  a  —  a  wicked  man  came  here  hun- 
dreds of  years  ago  and  kept  on  his  hat  and  they  didn't 
see  his  face  properly  and  thought  he  was  a  good  man; 
and  the  Lord  Burdon  that  was  then  came  to  speak  to 


126  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

him,  and  the  wicked  man  took  out  his  dagger  and  killed 
Lord  Burdon.     What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Percival  seeks  the  proper  touch.  He  asks:  "With 
blug?" 

"Blug  —  blood  !"  Mr.  Amber  exclaims  testily,  a  trifle 
injured  that  his  legends  adapted  to  the  use  of  children 
should  lack  con\'iction.  "Why,  bless  my  soul,  of  course 
there  was  blug  — blood.  Blug — dear  me — blood  ! "  and 
he  puts  so  fierce  an  eye  round  where  they  stand,  as  if  ex- 
pecting a  stain  to  ooze  through  the  floor  and  corroborate 
him,  that  Percival  draws  back  in  haste  lest  he  should  be 
standing  in  the  pool. 

That  makes  ^Slr.  Amber  laugh  and  he  pats  Percival's 
golden  head  and  concludes.  "So  ever  since  then,  you 
see,  we  never  let  any  but  a  Burdon  wear  his  hat  in  the 
hall  here.  It  would  be  a  sign  of  coming  disaster  to  the 
house,  the  tradition  says." 

He  turns  to  Aunt  Maggie.  "^ly  lady  was  very  par- 
ticular about  it,"  he  says.  "She  made  a  great  point  of 
obser\-ing  all  the  traditions." 

Jane  Lady  Burdon,  though  she  has  been  dead  these 
four  years,  is  always  "my  lady"  to  Mr.  Amber,  as  Roly 
remains  to  him  "my  lord"  or  "my  young  lord."  Aunt 
Maggie,  standing  a  little  aside,  looking  at  Percival,  re- 
plies in  her  quiet  voice :  "I  know  — I  remember.  They 
are  not  so  foolish  —  traditions  —  as  some  people  think, 
Mr.  Amber." 

He  nods  his  head  in  very  weighty  agreement,  then 
turns  again  to  Percival  who,  gazing  round,  discovers  a 
new  amazement.     "But  f^i^o  fireplaces  !"  Percival  cries. 

"Big  as  a  small  room,  too,  aren't  they?"  says  Mr. 
Amber,  important  and  gratified  again.  "Now,  look  at 
that !  There's  another  story  for  you  ! "  He  leads  Perci- 
val to  one  vast  hearth,  high  over  which  the  Burdon  arms 


PERCIVAL  HAS   A  PEEP  AT  'NORMOUS     127 

are  carved  in  oak.  ''See  those  letters  around  there? 
That's  our  motto.  That's  the  Burdon  motto  :  'I  hold  !' 
That  was  the  message  a  Burdon  sent  to  the  king's  troops 
when  Cromwell's  men  —  another  wicked  man,  Crom- 
well —  were  trying  to  get  in.  '  I  hold  ! '  he  told  his  mes- 
senger to  say  —  just  that,  'I  hold  ! '  and  afterwards,  when 
Cromwell  was  dead  and  another  king  came  back,  the 
king  changed  the  Burdon  motto  to  that.  '  I  hold  ! ' 
Fine?    Eh?" 

*'I  hold  !"  breathes  Percival,  mightily  impressed. 

''Why,  I  tell  you  — I  tell  you,"  cries  Mr.  Amber, 
"there's  a  story  in  every  inch  of  this  house.  Better 
stories  than  all  your  picture  books.  I'll  just  tell  Mrs. 
Ferris  about  tea  and  then  we'll  go  round.  I  know  all 
the  stories ;  no  one  knows  them  like  I  do."  And  he  tod- 
dles off  to  Mrs.  Ferris,  absorbed  in  his  lore  and  congrat- 
ulating himself  upon  it,  and  Aunt  Maggie  and  Percival 
are  left  alone. 

It  is  then  that  Percival  enjoys  his  second  right  of  that 
day. 

Aunt  Maggie  calls  him  to  her.  "Put  on  your  cap 
again  a  minute,  Percival  —  just  for  a  minute." 

"Oh,  but  I  mustn't,  Aunt  Maggie." 

She  takes  the  cap  from  his  hand  and  holds  it  above  his 
clustering  curls. 

He  protests.     "Mr.  Amber  said  so,  you  know." 

"What  did  he  say,  dear?" 

"Only  Burdons,  Aunt  Maggie." 

She  placed  the  cap  on  his  head  and  took  his  face  be- 
tween her  hands  znd  kissed  him.  She  looked  up,  and 
all  about  the  hall,  and  high  to  where,  around  the  gallery, 
portraits  of  bygone  Burdons  looked  steadily  down  upon 
her ;  and  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  spoke  some  message  that 
she  signalled  with  her  eyes. 


128  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

''Whoever  are  you  talking  to,  Aunt  Maggie?" 
She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  as  he  stood  sturdily 
there,  the  jolly  red  fisher  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  a 
puzzled  expression  in  his  face,  and  she  held  him  a  pace 
from  her.  ''  Say  the  motto,  Percival,  dear  —  the  Burdon 
motto.  Do  you  remember  it?  Say  it  while  you  have 
your  cap  on  —  out  loud  !" 

"Is  it  a  game,  Aunt  Maggie ?" 
"Say  it  quickly,  dear  —  out  loud  !" 
"I  hold  !"  says  Percival,  clear  and  sharp. 
In  the  gallery  behind  him  there  was  a  sound  of  move- 
ment.    He  turned  quickly  and  saw  a  man's  figure  step 
hastily  away. 

"Some  one  was  watching  us.  Aunt  Maggie." 
But  Aunt  Maggie  was  gone  into  her  "thinking." 

IV 

There  followed  for  Percival  the  most  delightful  two 
hours.  There  was  first  a  prodigal  tea  in  the  house- 
keeper's room,  where  motherly  Mrs.  Ferris  set  him  to 
work  on  scones  and  cream  and  strawberry  jam,  and 
where,  as  the  meal  progressed,  he  gladly  gave  himself 
over  to  Mr.  Amber's  entrancing  stories  of  Burdon  lore, 
while  Aunt  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Ferris  gossiped  together. 

Mrs.  Ferris  confirmed  the  arrival  of  servants  in  ad- 
vance of  Lord  and  Lady  Burdon  and  gave  some  details 
of  the  visit.  Her  ladyship  had  written  to  say  they  ex- 
pected to  stay  about  a  month.  They  came  for  the  pur- 
pose of  seeing  if  the  fine  air,  for  a  holiday  of  that  length, 
would  pick  up  Rollo.  "An  aiUng  child,"  said  Mrs. 
Ferris.  "Just  the  opposite  of  that  young  gentleman, 
from  all  accounts,"  and  she  nodded  towards  the  young 
gentleman,  who  beamed  back  at  her  as  cheerfully  as  a 


PERCIVAL  HAS  A  PEEP  AT   'NORMOUS     129 

prodigiously  distended  mouth  would  permit.  "A  lazy- 
looking  lot,"  Mrs.  Ferris  thought  the  servants  were, 
and  ought  to  have  come  earlier,  too,  for  there  was  work 
to  be  done  getting  the  house  ready,  Miss  Oxford  might 
take  her  word  for  it  —  all  the  furniture  and  the  pictures 
in  dusting  sheets  —  made  her  quite  creepyUke  to  look 
into  the  rooms  sometimes.  Not  right,  she  thought  it, 
to  neglect  the  Manor  Hke  these  were  doing.  She  knew 
her  place,  mind  you,  but  she  meant  to  have  a  word  with 
her  ladyship  before  her  ladyship  went  off  again. 

But  the  rooms  had  no  creeps  for  Percival  when  at 
last  the  tea  was  done,  the  jam  wiped  off,  and  the  promised 
tour  of  inspection  started.  He  put  a  sticky  hand  con- 
fidingly into  Mr.  Amber's  palm  and  breathed  "  'Nor- 
mous  !  Simply  'normous  to  me,  you  know,"  as  each 
apartment  was  discovered  to  him ;  and  stood  absorbed, 
the  most  gratifying  of  listeners,  while  Mr.  Amber,  com- 
fortably astride  his  hobby,  poured  forth  the  stories  and 
the  legends  that  had  gone  into  his  cherished  ''Lives" 
and  that  he  had  by  heart  and  could  tell  with  an  air  which 
called  up  the  actors  out  of  their  frames  and  out  of  the 
very  walls  to  play  their  parts  before  the  child.  Yet 
once  or  twice  he  stopped  in  the  midst  of  a  recital  and 
stood  frowning  as  though  something  puzzled  him,  and 
once  for  so  long  that  Percival  asked  :  ''Are  you  thinking 
of  something  else,  Mr.  Amber?" 

"Eh?"  said  Mr.  Amber.  "Thinking?  I'm  afraid 
I  was.  Let  me  see,  where  was  I?"  But  he  turned 
away,  lea\dng  the  story  unfinished ;  and  as  they  walked 
from  the  room  Percival  said  poHtely:  "I  don't  mind  if 
you  were,  you  know.  I  only  asked.  Aunt  Maggie  does 
it  and  I  just  run  away  and  play." 

Mr.  Amber  pressed  his  old  fingers  closer  about  the 
young  hand  they  held.     "Don't  run  away  when  I  do 


130  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

it,"  he  said,  "Just  wake  me  up.  It  keeps  coming 
over  me  that  I've  done  all  this  before  —  held  a  httle 
boy's  hand  and  told  him  all  this  just  Uke  I  hold  yours 
and  tell  you.  Well,  that's  a  very  funny  feeHng,  you 
know." 

"  'Strordinary  !"  Percival  agreed  in  his  interested  way ; 
and  Mr.  Amber  was  caused  to  laugh  and  to  forget  the 
stirring  in  his  mind  of  recollections  buried  there  twenty 
years  down.  Twenty  years  is  deep  water.  It  was  to 
be  more  disturbed,  causing  much  frowning,  much  "funny 
feeHng,"  before  ever  it  should  clear  and  show  the  old 
Hbrarian,  looking  into  the  pool  of  his  own  mind  over 
Percival's  shoulder,  Percival's  reflection  cast  up  from  the 
depths. 

The  tour  finished  in  the  library.  "Now  this  is  the 
Hbrary  !"  announced  Mr.  Amber  at  the  threshold,  much 
as  St.  Peter,  coming  with  a  new  spirit  to  the  last  gate, 
might  say :  "Now  this  is  Paradise." 

"Now  this  is  the  hbrary.  This  is  my  room.  Now, 
we'll  just  wipe  our  feet  once  again  —  sideways,  too  — 
that's  right.  And  I  think  our  fingers  are  still  a  little 
sticky,  eh  ?  that's  better  —  there!'' 

"  'Normous  !"  breathed  Percival.  "Simply  'normous, 
to  me,  you  know." 

No  dust  sheets  here,  everything  mellow  with  the  deep 
sheen  of  age  carefully  attended.  Tier  upon  tier  of  books, 
every  hue  of  binding  —  dark  red  to  brown,  brown  to 
deep  blue,  deep  blue  to  white  —  and  all,  however  worn, 
however  aged,  exquisitely  responsive  to  Mr.  Amber's 
soft  chamois  leather. 

Mr.  Amber  waved  a  proud  hand  at  them.  "I  ex- 
pect you'll  five  a  long  time  before  you  see  another  col- 
lection Hke  this,  Master  Percival.  And  I  know  every  one 
of  them  —  every  single  one  just  Hke  you  know  your  toys. 


PERCIVAL  HAS   A  PEEP  AT  'NORMOUS     131 

In  the  pitch  dark  —  in  the  pitch  dark,  mind  you  —  I 
could  put  my  hand  on  any  one  I  wanted  without  touch- 
ing another.     What  do  you  think  of  that,  eh  ?  " 

Percival  has  no  better  thought  for  it  than  the  old  one. 
"'Normous!"  he  declares.  "Simply  'normous  to  me, 
you  know,  Mr.  Amber  !" 

"And  the  care  I  take  of  them  !"  Mr.  Amber  continues, 
as  pleased  with  his  audience  as  if  Percival  were  the  li- 
brarians of  the  House  of  Lords,  the  Bodleian  and  the 
British  Museum  rolled  into  one.  "You  wouldn't  find 
enough  dust  on  those  books,  anywhere,  to  cover  the  head 
of  a  pin  ! "  He  points  to  the  highest  and  furthest  shelves : 
"You'd  think  there  might  be  dust  right  up  there, 
wouldn't  you?  Well,  you  just  choose  one  of  those 
books  —  any  one,  anywhere  you  like." 

"To  keep  for  my  own  ?" 

"Keep!  Bless  my  soul,  no!  Keep  I  Dear  me! 
dear  me  !    No,  just  point  to  a  book." 

"That  one  ! "  says  Percival,  stretching  an  arm.  "That 
one  in  the  corner  !" 

Mr.  Amber  accepts  the  challenge  with  a  triumphant 
rubbing  together  of  his  hands.  "That  brown  one,  eh? 
Very  well.  That's  a  rare  volume  —  Black  Letter  — 
Latimer's  'Fruitfull  Sermons'  —  London,  1584.  Now, 
you  see."  He  trots  excitedly  to  a  high,  wheeled  ladder, 
runs  it  beneath  the  "Fruitfull  Sermons,"  climbs  up 
shakily,  fetches  down  the  volume  and  presents  it  for  Perci- 
val's  inspection:  "There!  Run  your  finger  over  the 
top  of  it ;  that's  where  dust  collects.  Ah,  not  that  fin- 
ger;  got  a  cleaner  one?     That'll  do.     Now  !" 

It  is  getting  dusk  in  the  Hbrary,  so  Mr.  Amber  clutches 
the  small  finger  that  has  rubbed  over  the  "Fruitfull 
Sermons,"  and  they  go  to  a  deep  window  where  young 
head  and  old  peer  anxiously  at  the  pink  skin. 


132  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Not  a  speck!"  Mr.  Amber  cries  triumphantly. 
''Not  a  speck  of  dust !    What  did  I  tell  you ? " 

And  Percival,  holding  the  finger  carefully  apart  from 
its  fellows  :  "  'Strordinary  !  Simply  'strordinary  to  me, 
you  know  !" 

Mr.  Amber  climbs  laboriously  up  the  steps  again, 
and  seats  himself  at  the  top,  and  starts  dusting  all  around 
the  ''Fruitfull  Sermons,"  and  completely  forgets  Perci- 
val, who  wanders  about  for  a  little  and  then,  hearing  a 
sound,  goes  to  the  door. 


Here  was  the  white-faced  youth,  our  Egbert  Himt, 
who  had  grimaced  at  him  from  the  box  of  the  wagonette. 
The  white-faced  youth  stood  on  the  further  side  of  the 
passage,  paused  beneath  a  window  by  whose  Hght  he 
seemed  to  be  examining  a  small  phial  held  in  his  hand. 

Percival  ran  forward:  "Hallo!  Are  you  a  clown, 
please?" 

The  white-faced  youth  bit  a  pale  lip  and  stared  re- 
sentfully :  "Do  you  live  here  ? " 

"No,  I  don't,"  Percival  told  him.  "I've  been  having 
tea  with  Mrs.  Ferris." 

The  white-faced  youth  developed  the  sudden  heat 
characteristic  of  Egbert  Hunt  in  the  Miller's  Field  days. 
"Well,  don't  you  call  me  no  names,  then,"  said  Egbert 
Hunt  fiercely. 

"I'm  not,"  Percival  protested.  "You  made  a  face 
at  me  when  you  were  driving  in  the  road,  and  I  thought 
you  were  a  clown,  you  see." 

Egbert  Hunt  breathed  hotly  through  his  nose.  "Sauc- 
ing me,  ain't  you?"  he  demanded. 

Percival  had  heard  the  expression  in  the  village.     "Oh, 


PERCIVAL  HAS  A   PEEP  AT  'NORMOUS     133 

no,"  he  said  in  his  earnest  way.     "I  thought  you  had  a 
funny  face,  that  was  all." 

His  engaging  tone  and  air  molhiied  the  sour  Egbert. 
''I've  got  a  sick  yedache,"  said  Egbert.  "That's  what 
I've  got  —  crool !" 

Percival  looked  sorry  and  sought  to  give  comfort  with 
a  phrase  of  Aunt  Maggie.  "It  will  soon  go,"  he  said 
soothingly. 

"Not  mine,"  Egbert  declared.  "Not  my  sort  won't. 
I'm  a  living  martyr  to  'em.  Fac'."  He  nodded  with 
impressive  gloom  and  took  three  tabloids  from  the  phial 
he  held  in  his  hand.  "Vegules,"  he  explained;  and 
swallowed  them  with  a  very  loud  gulping  sound. 

"What  are  you,  please?"  Percival  inquired,  vastly 
interested. 

"Slave,"  said  Egbert  briefly. 

"But  you're  not  black,"  argued  Percival,  recalling 
the  picture  of  a  chained  negro  on  a  missionary  almanac 
in  Honor's  kitchen. 

"Thenk  Gord,  no!"  said  Egbert  piously.  "White 
slaves  are  worse,"  he  added. 

"And  were  those  slaves  in  the  carriage  with  you  ?" 

"Tyrangs,"  said  Egbert  Hunt.  "Tyrangs  and  sicko- 
pants  of  tyrangs." 

Percival  started  a  question ;  then,  as  a  sound  came : 
"That's  my  Aunt  Maggie  calling  me.  Good-by !  I 
hope  your  poor  head  will  soon  be  better." 

Egbert  smiled  the  wan  smile  of  one  not  to  be  deluded 
into  hope:  "You've  been  kind  to  me,"  he  said.  "I 
Hke  you.  You  ain't  Hke  all  the  rest.  What's  your 
name?" 

"Percival.  I  really  must  go  now,  if  you  please.  My 
Aimt  Maggie  — " 

He  started  to  run  in  the  direction  of  Aunt  Maggie's 


134  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

voice ;   but  Egbert  recalled  him  with  a  very  mysterious 
and  compelling  '*H'st !"  and  wag  of  the  head. 

"Was  that  your  Aunt  Maggie  in  the  hall  with  you  just 
now  ?  "  Egbert  inquired. 

A  sudden  recollection  came  to  Percival.  "You  mean 
before  tea  ?    Was  that  you  ?  " 

"What  she  make  you  put  your  cap  on  for,  and  say  'I 
hold'  ?     That  was  a  funny  bit,  that  was." 

"Why,  I  don't  know,"  said  Percival.  "Was  that 
you  up  on  the  bridge?" 

Egbert  did  not  answer  the  question.  "You  ask  her," 
he  said,  "an'  tell  me.     Odd  bit,  that  was." 

"Yes,  I  will,"  Percival  agreed.  "I  say,  I  must  go. 
What's  your  name,  if  you  please  ?" 

"Mr.  Unt.  Run  along;  you're  a  nice  little  chap;  I 
like  you." 

"I  like  you,  too,"  said  Percival,  very  interested  in 
this  strange  character.  "  I'm  sorry  I  thought  you  were  a 
clown.  Good-by,  Mr.  Unt.  I  say,  there  is  my  Aunt 
Maggie!  Isn't  this  a  'normous  house?"  and  he  scam- 
pered brightly  to  the  sound  of  Aunt  Maggie's  voice. 

"Abode  of  tyrangs,"  said  Mr.  Hunt,  moving  swiftly 
in  the  opposite  direction.     "Boil  um  !" 


CHAPTER  II 

FOLLOWS    A   FROG   AND   FINDS    A    TADPOLE 


The  acquaintance  with  slave  Egbert  was  very  shortly 
renewed.  The  afternoon  of  the  Friday  that  was  to  see 
the  arrival  of  the  Burdons  at  the  Old  Manor  brought 
also  a  threshing-engine  up  the  village  street  —  a  snort- 
ing and  enormous  thing  that  fetched  Percival  rushing 
to  the  gate  and  drew  him  after  it  and  kept  him  in 
charmed  attendance  until  ''Post  Ofhc"  was  half  a  mile 
behind.  Here  the  engine  stopped,  and  the  men  who  ac- 
companied it  setting  themselves  to  a  deliberate  meal, 
Percival  turned  himself  into  a  horse  that  had  escaped 
from  its  stable  and  was  recaptured  and  began  to  trot 
himself  home. 

He  was  in  the  lane  that  strikes  out  of  the  highroad 
towards  Burdon  Old  Manor  when  his  quick  eye  caught 
sight  of  a  frog  in  the  grass-grown  hedge-side  and 
"Whoa!"  cried  Percival  and  changed  from  escaped 
horse  to  ardent  frog-hunter.  The  sturdiest  frog,  it 
proved  to  be,  a  big,  solid  fellow  and  wonderfully  nimble 
at  great  jumps  when  Percival  was  found  to  be  in  pursuit. 
He  pressed  it  hotly;  it  bounded  amain.  He  laughed 
and  followed  —  it  was  here  —  it  was  there  — it  was  lost 
—  it  was  found  —  it  was  gone  again.  He  grew  stub- 
bom  and  vexed  in  the  chase.  A  frown  stood  on  his  moist 
brow.     He  began  to  breathe  hotly.     The  frog  perceived 

135 


136  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

the  change.  It  lost  its  wits.  It  dashed  from  cover, 
made  with  wild  bounds  across  the  road,  was  closely 
followed,  and  lived  to  tell  the  frightful  tale  by  inter- 
vention of  a  shout  before  it,  a  stumble  behind  it,  and  the 
barest  pulling  up  of  the  Manor  wagonette  within  a  yard 
of  fallen  Percival. 

Lord  Burdon  jumped  out  and  Hfted  Percival  in  his 
arms  before  the  frog-hunter  was  well  aware  of  what  had 
happened.  "Not  hurt,  eh?  That's  all  right!  You 
young  rascal,  you — you  might  have  been  killed.  Haven't 
you  got  ears?  What  are  those  great  flappers  for, 
eh?"  and  Lord  Burdon  tweaked  a  flapper  and  laughed 
jovially.     "What  were  you  doing,  eh  ?" 

"I  was  chasing  a  frog,"  said  Percival,  rubbing  his 
ear  and  using  his  elevation  on  Lord  Burdon's  arms  to 
have  a  stare  at  the  little  boy  and  the  pretty  lady  in  the 
wagonette. 

"A  frog  !  Why  here's  a  frog  for  you.  Come  and 
look  at  my  frog  in  the  cart  here." 

Lord  Burdon  carried  him  to  the  body  of  the  wagonette. 
"Here's  my  frog!  tadpole,  rather.  Rollo,  look  here. 
You're  only  a  Uttle  tadpole,  aren't  you?  Look  what 
this  fine  air  is  going  to  do  for  you.  Look  at  this  great 
lump  of  a  fellow.     That's  what  you've  got  to  be  like  !" 

The  little  tadpole  smiled  shyly.  Tadpole  was  an  ex- 
cusable description.  Rollo  Letham  at  nearly  ten  might 
have  passed  for  younger  than  Percival  at  rising  eight. 
He  was  ver>'  thin,  pale,  fragile ;  his  head  looked  too  big 
for  his  delicate  frame ;  his  eyes  were  big  and  shy,  his 
mouth  nervous. 

"A  shame!"  said  Lady  Burdon,  smiling.  "You're 
not  a  tadpole,  are  you,  Rollo  ?  But  this  is  a  splendid 
young  man  !"  And  she  stretched  a  kind  hand  —  nicely 
gloved  —  across  the  cart  to  Percival. 


FOLLOWS  A  FROG  AND  FINDS  A  TADPOLE    137 

Lord  Burdon  raised  him  to  meet  it.  Bare  knees,  well- 
streaked  with  mud  and  blood,  came  into  \T[ew. 

''Oh,  your  poor  Httle  knees  !"  Lady  Burdon  cried. 

Percival  caught  Rollo's  eye  fixed  in  some  horror  on 
the  wounds.  "I  cut  them  ever>^  day!"  he  said  bigly, 
and  shot  a  proud  glance  at  the  tadpole. 

"Well,  they're  terrible.  They  must  be  washed. 
Bring  him  in,  Maurice.  We'll  wash  him,  as  we've 
nearly  killed  him,  at  the  house." 

''Yes,  do!  Yes,  please  do!"  RoUo  whispered,  and 
his  mother  patted  his  hand,  pleased  at  the  animation  of 
the  thin  little  face. 

Lord  Burdon  hesitated:  "Take  him  to  the  Manor? 
Why,  that  may  be  miles  from  his  home,  you  know." 

"I  suppose  we  can  send  him  back  in  the  trap,  can't 
we?"  Lady  Burdon  said,  a  trifle  disagreeably.  "You're 
a  regular  old  woman,  Maurice.  Lift  him  in  next  to 
Rollo.  You  can  see  how  RoUo  takes  to  him,  I  should 
have  thought." 

"Didn't  want  to  be  had  up  for  kidnapping,  you  know," 
Lord  Burdon  responded  cheerfully.  "Would  be  a  bad 
start  in  the  local  opinion  —  eh  ?  "  And  he  laughed  with 
the  appeal  and  the  apology  with  which  he  always  met 
his  wife's  waves  of  impatience.  "Shove  up,  RoUo  !  In 
you  get,  frog-hunter !  Heavens !  What  a  lump.  AU 
right.     Drive  on!" 

"Gee  up!"  cried  Percival,  highly  entertained,  and 
chatted  frankly  with  Lady  Burdon  as  the  wagonette 
bowled  along.  To  her  questions  he  was  nearly  eight, 
he  told  her ;  he  would  have  another  birthday  in  a  short 
time ;  Honor  gave  him  a  sword  at  his  last  birthday  and 
his  Aunt  Maggie  gave  him  a  trumpet.  "You  may  blow 
my  trumpet,  if  you  hke,"  turning  to  Rollo.  "Honor 
says  it  is  poison  to  blow  it  because  I've  broken  the  little 


138  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

white  thing  what  you  blow  through.     But  I  blow  it  all 
right." 

Rollo  flushed  and  smiled  and  put  a  thin  little  hand 
from  beneath  the  rug  and  took  Percival's  muddy  fist 
and  held  it  for  the  remainder  of  the  journey.  Boy  friends 
who  did  not  laugh  at  him  were  new  to  him. 

"Miss  Oxford's  little  boy,"  Percival  explained  to 
further  questions.  "I  live  at  the  post-office,  and  we've 
got  a  drawer  full  of  stamps  with  funny  Httle  holes  what 
you  tear  off." 

Lady  Burdon  turned  to  her  husband:  "Ah,  I  know 
now.  You  remember?  You  remember  the  vicar  tell- 
ing us  about  Miss  Oxford  when  we  first  came  down  here  ? 
Well,  she's  to  be  congratulated  on  her  nephew.  I'm 
glad.     He'll  be  the  jolliest  httle  companion  for  Rollo." 

Lord  Burdon  remembered.  "Yes  —  this  will  be  her 
sister's   child.     Orphan,   poor   httle   beggar." 

And  Lady  Burdon:  "We'll  be  able  to  have  him  up 
with  Rollo  as  much  as  we  Hke,  I've  no  doubt.  Look 
how  happy  they  are  together,"  and  she  smiled  at  them, 
chatting  eagerly. 

Percival  was  twisting  and  bending  the  better  to  see 
the  occupants  of  the  box-seat.  A  form  that  seemed 
famihar  sat  beside  the  driver.  "Why,  that's  Mr.  Unt !" 
Percival  cried  brightly,  and  as  the  famihar  form  turned 
at  the  sound  of  its  name,  "How's  your  poor  headache, 
Mr.  Unt  ? "   he  asked.     "Much  better  now,  isn't  it  ? " 

Mr.  Unt's  palHd  face  became  sHghtly  tinged  with  em- 
barrassment. "The  young  gentleman  spoke  to  me  at 
the  Manor  Wednesday,  me  lady,"  he  apologised.  "Had 
come  up  to  take  tea  with  Mr.  Hamber."  He  profited 
by  the  touch  of  his  hat  with  which  he  spoke  to  draw  his 
hand  across  his  forehead;  a  sick  yedache  clearly  W3 
still  torturing  there.    " 


FOLLOWS  A  FROG  AND  FINDS  A  TADPOLE     139 

"His  headaches  are  terrible,"  Percival  explained. 
"  I  thought  he  was  a  clown,  you  know.  I  saw  him  driv- 
ing in  this  carriage  with  tyrangs." 

Egbert's  back  shivered.  "Parding,  me  lady,"  said 
he,  turning  again. 

Lady  Burdon  laughed.  "Hunt,"  she  told  Percival. 
"Not  Unt.     He  speaks  badly." 

"You  know,  his  headaches — "  Percival  began;  and 
she  added  more  severely:   "He  is  a  servant." 

"He's  my  servant,"  Rollo  said.  "Hunt  looks  after 
me  when  I  go  out.  I  hate  nurses,  so  I  have  him.  He'll 
be  yours  too,  if  you'll  come  and  play  with  me.  Both  of 
ours.     May  he,  mother?" 

"You  can  tell  Miss  Oxford  that  some  one  will  always 
be  there  to  keep  an  eye  on  you  if  she  will  let  you  come 
and  play,"  Lady  Burdon  repKed  to  Percival. 

"So  now  he  is  yours  and  mine,"  cried  Rollo,  squeezing 
the  hand  he  held. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  Percival  said.  "Of  course, 
if  his  headache  is  very  bad  we  won't  have  him,  because 
he  will  like  to  He  down." 

He  spoke  clearly ;  and  a  tiny  little  tremble  of  Egbert's 
back  seemed  to  advertise  again  the  gratitude  that  sym- 
pathy aroused  in  him. 

" Oh,  that's  nothing,"  Rollo  declared.     "He  pretends." 

The  poor  back  drooped.  "Tyrangs,"  Egbert  mur- 
mured and  furtively  edged  a  vegule  to  his  mouth. 

II 

In  the  dusk  of  that  evening  Percival  went  bounding 
home,  immensely  pleased  with  his  new  friends  and  with 
the  new  delights  in  life  they  had  discovered  for  him.  He 
had  nice  clean  knees  and  a  bandage  on  each  —  a  matter 


I40  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

that  caused  him  considerable  pride.  He  had  gladly 
promised  to  come  to  see  Rollo  again  on  the  morrow, 
and  he  would  have  stayed  much  longer  into  the  evening 
had  not  Lord  Burdon  (as  Lady  Burdon  said)  "begun 
to  fidget"  and  to  persist  that  Miss  Oxford  must  be  getting 
nervous  at  this  long  absence. 

"  ffis  aunt  will  naturally  be  glad  when  she  knows  where 
he  has  been,"  Lady  Burdon  had  exclaimed. 

Lord  Burdon  gave  the  smile  that  she  knew  came  before 
one  of  his  annoying  rejoinders.  "That  won't  make  her 
wild  with  joy  while  she  doesn't  know  where  he  is,  old 

girl." 

She  was  irritable.  The  vexation  of  having  to  leave 
London,  which  she  enjoyed,  for  Burdon  which  she  felt 
she  would  hate,  was  settUng  upon  her.  She  looked  at 
him  resentfully.  "That  is  funny,  I  suppose?"  she  in- 
quired. "You  are  always  very  funny,  aren't  you?" 
and  she  gave  orders  for  Hunt  to  take  Percival  home, 

Down  the  road  Percival  chattered  brightly  to  Egbert, 
holding  his  hand.  "I  jump  like  this,"  he  explained, 
capering  along,  "because  I  pretend  I'm  a  horse.  Then 
if  you  want  me  to  walk  quietly  you  only  have  to  say 
'whoa  !'  you  see." 

"Whoa!"    said  Egbert  very  promptly. 

Percival's  legs  itched  to  jump  out  the  animation  that 
events  had  bottled  into  him.  "Did  you  say  'gee  up'  ?" 
he  presently  inquired. 

"No,"  said  Egbert. 

"Oh,"  said  Percival,  and  with  a  little  sigh  repeated 
"oh!" 

Egbert  felt  the  appeal.  "Fac'  of  it  is,  that  jumping 
jerks  me  up." 

"Got  another  sick  headache,  have  you?" 

"Crool,"  said  the  living  martyr  to  'em. 


FOLLOWS  A  FROG  AND  FINDS  A  TADPOLE    141 

Percival  took  another  phrase  of  Aunt  Maggie:  "You 
must  be  thor'ly  out  of  sorts,  I  think." 

"Got  one  foot  in  the  grave,  that's  what  I've  got," 
Egbert  agreed.     "Fac'." 

Percival  peered  down  at  Egbert's  legs.  "Which  one, 
please  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"Figger  o'  speech,"  Egbert  told  him,  and  explained: 
"Way  of  saying  things."  He  added:  "Go  off  in  the 
night  one  of  these  days,  I  shall;"  and  commented  with 
gloomy  satisfaction:  "Then  they'll  be  sorry." 

Percival  asked:  "Who  will?"  He  visioned  Egbert 
running  by  night  with  one  foot  embedded  in  a  tombstone, 
and  he  was  considerably  attracted  by  the  picture.  "Who 
will?"  he  repeated. 

"Tyrangs  1"  said  Egbert.     "Too  late  to  be  sorry  then. 

Fac'." 

"Well,  I  should  be  drefSy  sorry,"  Percival  assured 

him. 

"Believe  you,"  said  Egbert,  "and  many  thanks  for 
the  same.  First  'that's  ever  said  a  kine  word  to  hie,  you 
are;    and  I'll  be  grateful  — if  I'm  spared." 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  then  down  the  lane. 
"Think  you  could  get  home  safe  from  here?  Fac'  is 
I'm  behind  with  my  vegules  and  left  them  in  my  other 
coat." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Percival  agreed.  "This  is  just  by  the  cor- 
ner, you  know." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Egbert,  halting,  "you  see,  if  I 
don't  take  'em  fair,  can't  expec'  them  to  treat  me  fair, 
can  I?" 

Percival  assented  :  "Oh,  no." 

"Sure  you'll  be  all  right?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I'll  be  a  horse,  you  see.  Just  say  'gee 
up  !'   will  you?" 


142  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Gee  up  !"  said  Egbert. 

"  Stead-e)' ! "  cried  Percival,  prancing.  "Stead-e^*! 
Good  night !"  and  bounded  off. 

"Nice  little  f'ler,"  commented  Egbert;  and  hurried 
back  to  the  vegules. 

Where  the  lane  turned  to  the  village,  horse  Percival 
was  made,  as  he  declared,  to  shy  dreff'ly.  He  galloped 
almost  into  the  arms  of  two  figures  that  stepped  suddenly 
out  of  the  dusk.  ''Oh,  Percival !"  Aunt  Maggie  cried 
and  kissed  him.     "Oh,  Percival,  where  have  you  been?" 

"Say 'whoa!'"  cried  Percival.  "Say  'whoa!' Aunt 
Maggie.     I'm  a  horse  —  a  white  one,  you  know," 

Two  heavy  hands  pressed  the  white  horse's  shoulders, 
stilhng  its  plunges.  "You're  a  bad  little  boy,  that's 
what  you  are,"  Honor  exclaimed,  "running  off  and 
frightening  your  Auntie,  and  not  caring  nor  minding. 
Don't  Care  comes  before  a  fall,  as  I've  told  you  many 
times  and  — " 

''Pride  comes  before  a  fall,"  corrected  Percival. 
"You've  got  it  wrong  again,  Honor,"  and  Honor's  flow 
was  checked  with  the  suddenness  that  had  become  the 
established  termination  of  attempts  to  reprove  Percival 
since  he  had  learnt  the  right  phrasing  of  her  store  of 
confused  maxims. 

She  took  his  hand  while  she  pondered  doubtfully  upon 
the  correction,  and  with  Aunt  Maggie  holding  the  other, 
he  skipped  along,  bubbling  over  with  his  adventures. 
"I've  got  bandages  on  both  my  legs,  Aunt  Maggie  —  oh, 
and  Hunt  has  got  one  of  his  legs  in  the  grave,  just  fancy 
that !  I've  been  having  tea  with  Rollo  ;  and  Lady  Bur- 
don  put  on  these  bandages  and  she  wants  me  to  go  and 
play  with  Rollo  every  day.  Do  let  me.  Aunt  Maggie. 
I  say,  you  are  squeezing  my  hand  most  dreffly,  you 
know." 


FOLLOWS  A  FROG  AND  FINDS  A  TADPOLE     143 

Aunt  Maggie  relaxed  the  sudden  contraction  of  her 
fingers.  "Lady  Burdon  —  yes?  —  tell  from  the  very 
beginning,  Percival  dear." 

"Well,  she  said  'Promise  to  tell  your  Aunt  Maggie 
I  will  come  and  ask  her  to  let  you  be  Rollo's  little  friend 
and'  —  Aunt  Maggie/    You're  hurting!" 

She  recollected  herself  again  and  patted  the  small 
fingers.  "Tell  from  the  very  beginning,  dear.  How 
did  you  meet  them?" 

"Well,  you  understand,  I  was  catching  a  frog — " 

"Post  Offic"  was  reached,  supper  was  swallowed,  his 
merry  head  beginning  to  droop  and  nod,  while  still  he 
excitedly  recounted  all  his  adventures.  He  was  almost 
asleep  when  Aunt  Maggie  undressed  him  and  put  him 
to  bed. 

She  sat  a  long  time  beside  him,  watching  him  while 
he  slept. 


CHAPTER  III 

LADY  BUEDON  COMES    TO   "POST    OFFIC' 


In  the  morning  Lady  Burdon  came  with  Rollo  to  make 
her  request  that  Percival  might  spend  much  of  his  time 
at  the  Old  Manor  as  Rollo's  playmate.  In  these  seven 
years  since  the  amazement  at  Miller's  Field,  this  was 
but  her  third  visit  to  the  estate,  her  first  for  the  purpose 
of  staying  any  length  of  time,  and  the  first  that  had  seen 
Rollo  with  her.  Two  days  had  been  spent  here  when 
Jane  Lady  Burdon  had  been  brought  to  rest  in  Burdon 
churchyard;  three  when  Mr.  Maxwell,  the  agent,  had 
been  troublesome  and  importunate  in  the  matter  of 
expensive  alterations  on  the  property.  Lady  Burdon 
had  come  down  then  "to  have  an  understanding  with 
him ; "  as  she  expressed  it — "to  see  for  herself."  The  re- 
sult had  been  as  unfortunate  for  Mr.  Maxwell  (to  whom 
she  had  shown  some  temper)  as  it  had  been  augmen- 
tative of  the  disUke  she  had  always  felt  for  the  property 
and  its  greedy  responsibilities.  The  result  had  been  to 
filter  over  the  countryside  from  Mr.  Maxwell  that  she 
was  the  controlling  partner  in  the  new  representatives 
of  the  house;  that  hers  was  the  refusal  to  take  up  the 
urgently  needed  irrigation  scheme;  hers  the  scandal 
(as  it  became)  of  neglect  to  carry  out  improvements  in 
the  cottages  over  at  Abbess  Roding;  hers  the  crime 
(as  it  was  held)  of  the  selling-up  over  at  Shepwall  that 
entailed  eviction  of  tenants  old  on  the  land  as  the  house 
of  Burdon  itself. 

144 


LADY  BURDON  COMES  TO  "POST  OFFIC"     145 

On  the  other  hand  the  result  had  been  to  return  Lady 
Burdon  to  the  Mount  Street  Hfe  with  at  least  a  tem- 
porary stop  put  to  the  Maxwell  whinings  and  at  least 
a  lighter  drain  from  the  Mount  Street  expenses. 

Miss  Oxford  had  not  seen  her  on  either  of  these  visits. 
Miss  Oxford  had  only  smiled  in  an  odd  way  when  she 
heard  of  the  behaviour  that  had  set  the  countryside 
clacking.  The  better  Lady  Burdon  flourished,  the  more 
Lady  Burdon  exercised  the  prerogatives  of  her  usurped 
position,  the  riper  she  ripened  for  the  blow,  when  there 
should  be  returned  to  her  the  son  whose  mother  she 
had  murdered ;  that  was  the  entertainment  Miss  Oxford 
nursed  through  these  years,  Hving  so  gently  and  so 
quietly,  "thinking"  so  much,  poor  dear. 

"Strange-Hke?"  "Silly-Hke?"  Or  dreadfully  sane? 
For  Miss  Oxford's  own  part,  she  knew  only  one  thing  of 
her  mental  condition.  At  very  rare  intervals  there  seized 
her  a  state  that  was  related  to  and  that  recalled  the  tre- 
mendous pressure  in  her  brain  when  she  had  knelt,  con- 
sumed with  hate  and  desire  for  vengeance,  by  Audrey's 
death-bed.  It  took  the  form  of  a  sudden  violent  flutter- 
ing in  her  brain,  as  though  a  live,  winged  thing  were 
beating  there,  beating  to  be  free.  The  pressure  that 
came  by  Audrey's  death-bed  had  ended  in  a  snap  —  in 
something  giving  that  left  her  extraordinarily,  tinglingly 
calm,  possessed  by  the  plan  and  certainty  of  revenge  to 
be  taken  by  Audrey's  son  —  one  day.  The  fluttering, 
the  winghke  beating  ended  of  its  own  volition,  and  out- 
side any  command  she  could  put  upon  it —  sweeping 
up  all  her  senses  in  its  beating,  only  leaving  to  her  the 
terror  that  it  would  end — in  what?  Sometimes  it 
came  in  just  the  tiniest  flutter,  without  cause  and  gone 
as  soon  as  come,  just  arresting  her  and  frightening  her 
like  a  swift  shoot  of  pain  in  a  nerve.     Sometimes  in  the 


146  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

briefest  flutter  but  with  cause;  such  a  case  had  been 
when  Percival  told  her  of  his  meeting  with  the  Burdons 
and  she  had  caused  him  to  exclaim  by  clutching  his  hand. 
Once  of  much  longer  duration  and  of  new  effect,  and  with 
revelation  to  her  of  the  end  it  threatened.  That  was 
when,  a  few  days  ago,  she  had  stood  alone  with  Percival 
in  the  great  hall  of  Burdon  Old  Manor.  It  was  the 
fluttering  that  had  bade  her  make  him  put  on  his  cap 
and  cry  '  I  hold  ! '  and  she  had  been  informed  that  if  it 
did  not  stop  —  if  it  did  not  stop  !  —  if  it  did  not  stop  ! 
she  would  scream  out  her  secret  —  run  through  the  house 
and  cry  to  all  that  Lady  Burdon  was  — 

It  had  stopped.  The  beating  wings  ceased.  She  was 
returned  to  her  quiet,  gentle  waiting. 

II 

It  always  took  the  same  form  —  the  presentation  of  a 
picture. 

"They're  coming  !  They're  coming  ! "  cried  Percival, 
bursting  into  the  parlour  with  tossing  arms,  aflame  with 
excitement,  hopping  on  lively  toes,  to  announce  Lady 
Burdon  and  Rollo.  "They're  coming.  Aunt  Maggie!" 
and  he  was  away  to  greet  them  at  the  gate. 

Aunt  Maggie  was  at  the  table  where  post-offlce  busi- 
ness was  conducted.  The  open  door  gave  directly  on  to 
the  garden  path ;  and  she  heard  voices  and  then  a  step 
on  the  threshold  and  bent  over  the  papers  before  her; 
and  then  a  pleasant  tone  that  said  "  Good  morning,  I  am 
Lady  Burdon,"  and  immediately  the  beating  wings,  wild, 
savage,  whirling,  and  she  transported  from  where  she 
sat  to  watch  herself  in  the  picture  that  the  fluttering 
always  brought. 

Immense  beating  of  the  wings,  the  sound  drumming 


i 


LADY  BURDON  COMES  TO  "  POST  OFFIC  "     147 

in  her  ears ;  seven  years  rolled  up  as  a  stage-curtain  dis- 
closes a  scene,  and  she  saw  the  room  in  the  Holloway 
road,  herself  kneeling  there  and  Audrey's  voice:  "... 
and  then  said  '  I  am  Lady  Burdon '  .  .  .  O  Maggie  ! 

0  Maggie  !  .  .  .  and  I  said  '  Oh,  how  can  you  be  Lady 
Burdon?'  .  .  .  Maggie!  Maggie!"  The  beating  wings 
drove  up  to  a  pitch  they  had  never  before  reached. 
Through  their  tumult  —  buffeted,  as  it  were,  by  their 
fury  —  and  from  the  scene  in  which  she  saw  herself,  she 
looked  up  and  saw  Lady  Burdon  smiling  there,  and  heard 
Lady  Burdon's  voice:  "Good  morning,  I  am  Lady  Bur- 
don." Again,  as  in  the  great  hall  with  Rollo,  if  it  did 
not  stop  !— if  it  did  not  stop  ! —  if  it  did  not  stop  !  she 
must  cry  out :  "You  are  not  I  You  said  that  to  Audrey 
and  killed  her!    Now — " 

And  again,  and  this  time  when  the  terrible  flutter- 
ing had  almost  beaten  itself  free  and  she  had  formed 
her  lips  to  release  it,  it  suddenly  stopped.  As  at  the 
bedside,  seven  years  before,  she  fell  from  paroxysm  of 
passion  to  unnatural  calm,  so  now  she  was  returned  to 
her  normal,  quiet  self,  content  to  wait,  and  she  said 
quite  quietly:    "Percival  told  me  to  expect  you." 

Lady  Burdon  advanced  pleasantly.  "Ah,  and  I  hope 
he  also  remembered  to  tell  you  of  my  apologies.  T 
am  afraid  we  kept  him  with  us  much  too  long  last 
night." 

She  looked  around  the  room  with  the  air  of  one  willing 
to  chat  and  to  be  entertained,  and  Miss  Oxford,  murmur- 
ing there  was  no  occasion  for  apology,  advanced  a  chair 
with  :  "Please  sit  down,  if  you  will.     This  is  ver>'  humble, 

1  am  afraid.     It  is  only  the  post-office,  you  know ;   and 
only  a  toy  post-office  at  that." 

She  was  quite  herself  again.  Through  this  interview, 
and  always  thereafter  when  she  met  Lady  Burdon  or 


148  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

thought  of  her,  she  was  invested  with  the  calmness  that 
had  come  to  her  by  the  death-bed.  She  knew  quite 
certainly  that  she  had  only  to  wait.  She  was  not  at  all 
anxious.  She  knew  she  could  wait.  She  only  feared  — 
now  for  the  first  time,  and  increasingly  as  the  attacks 
became  more  frequent  —  that  an  onset  of  that  dreadful 
fluttering  might  descend  upon  her  and  might  not  go 
before  it  had  driven  her  to  wreck  the  plan  for  which  she 
waited  —  Percival,  not  she,  to  avenge  his  mother. 

The  fear  caused  in  her  a  noticeable  nervousness  of 
manner.  Lady  Burdon  attributed  it  to  natural  embar- 
rassment at  tliis  gracious  visit,  and  that  made  her  more 
gracious  yet.  Miller's  Field  would  have  perceived  in 
Lady  Burdon,  as  she  sat  talking  pleasantly,  a  consider- 
able change  from  the  Mrs.  Letham  it  had  known.  She 
was  very  becomingly  dressed.  She  had  grown  a  trifle 
rounder  in  the  figure  and  fuller  in  the  face  since  Miller's 
Field  gave  her  good-by,  and  that  advantaged  her.  Her 
olive  complexion  was  warmer  in  shade,  healthier  in  tint- 
ing than  it  had  been.  The  walk  from  the  Manor  had 
touched  her  freshly,  and  she  had  been  pleased  by  the 
respectful  greetings  of  the  villagers.  RoUo,  completely 
in  love  with  Percival,  was  brighter  than  she  had  ever 
known  him.  She  had  hated  the  idea  of  burying  herself 
down  here  for  a  month;  but  she  was  beginning  to  en- 
tertain an  agreeable  view  of  taking  up  her  neglected 
position  and  dignity  in  this  pleasant  countryside.  She 
was  very  happy  as  she  faced  Miss  Oxford  :  her  happiness 
and  all  that  contributed  to  it  made  her  very  comely  to 
the  eye;    and  she  was  aware  of  that. 

She  spoke  enthusiastically  of  Percival.  "Such  a 
splendid  young  man.  Such  charming  manners."  She 
spoke  most  graciously  of  knowing  all  about  Miss  Oxford 
and  of  how  plucky  of  her  it  was  to  take  up  the  post- 


LADY  BURDON  COMES  TO  "POST  OFFIC"     149 

office.  She  said  smilingly  that  Miss  Oxford  was  not  to 
take  advantage  of  the  post-office  by  keeping  herself  to 
herself  as  the  saying  was;  and  when  Miss  Oxford  re- 
plied; "You  are  kind;  we  have  no  society  here,  of 
course;  with  the  one  or  two  famiUes  the  post-office 
makes  no  difference ;  we  are  all  old  friends ;  with  you, 
it  is  different;"  she  said  very  winningly:  "Not  kind, 
in  any  case  —  selfish.  It  is  Percival  I  am  after.  We 
have  taken  so  much  to  him.  He  and  my  Rollo  have 
struck  up  the  greatest  friendship,  and  that  is  such  a 
pleasure  to  me.  Rollo  as  a  rule  is  so  shy  and  reserved 
with  children.  He  has  no  child  friends.  It  will  do  him 
a  world  of  good  if  Percival  may  play  with  him.  Perci- 
val will  be  the  making  of  him." 

She  smiled  in  confident  and  happy  belief  of  her  words, 
and  Miss  Oxford  smiled,  too.  It  was  not  for  Lady 
Burdon  to  know  —  yet  —  that  Percival  was  being 
brought  up  to  be  not  Rollo's  making  but  his  undoing. 

But  Miss  Oxford  only  said  that  the  friendship  would 
be  capital  for  Percival  also,  since  Lady  Burdon  permitted 
it.  "There  are  no  boys  here  in  Little  Letham  that  he 
can  make  close  companions,"  she  said.  "We  seem  short 
of  children  —  except  among  the  villagers.  I  think  Mrs. 
Espart's  Httle  girl  at  Upabbot  over  the  Ridge  is  the 
nearest." 

Lady  Burdon  nodded.  "Mrs.  Espart  —  yes,  I  am 
to  go  over  there.  She  left  cards,  thinking  we  had  ar- 
rived.    Abbey  Royal,  she  lives  at,  doesn't  she?" 

"Abbey  Royal,  yes.  One  of  our  show  places,  you 
know.  What  Percival  would  call  'normous,"  and  Miss 
Oxford  related  the  "  'normous;  simply  'normous  to 
me,  you  know,"  of  Percival's  visit  to  the  Manor.  "We 
came  to  'enormous'  when  I  was  reading  to  him  shortly 
afterwards,"   she  said,   "and  he  exclaimed:    'I  know! 


ISO  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

'Normous,  like  Mr.  Amber's  house!'  Mr.  Amber 
showed   him   round." 

"He  is  the  sweetest  little  fellow,"  Lady  Burdon 
laughed.  "And  reading  to  him  —  I  was  going  to  ask 
you  about  that  —  about  lessons,  I  mean.  Does  he  do 
lessons  ?  Rollo's  education  has  been  terribly  neglected, 
I  am  afraid.  I  thought  it  would  be  so  nice  if  he  could 
join  his  new  friend  in  them  while  he  is  here." 

"Percival  goes  every  morning  to  Miss  Purdie  —  you 
would  have  passed  her  cottage  —  next  to  the  Church." 

"Capital,"  Lady  Burdon  said.  "I  will  arrange  for 
Rollo." 

"She  will  be  dehghted.  Having  Percival  has  already 
lost  her  a  chance  of  another  pupil.  Mrs.  Espart  was 
going  to  send  her  little  girl  over  daily,  but  didn't  like  the 
idea  of  the  post-office  little  boy." 

"Ridiculous!"  Lady  Burdon  cried.  "I  will  tell  her 
so."  She  turned  at  the  sound  of  much  scrambling  and 
laughter  in  the  doorway.  "Ridiculous!  Rollo,  you 
are  going  to  do  lessons  with  Percival.  Now  won't  that 
be  jolly,  darHng?" 

But  it  was  Percival  who  was  first  in  and  came  bounding 
to  them  with:  "Aunt  Maggie  !  Aunt  Maggie  !  Rollo 
has  got  a  pony  of  his  own  in  London  and  rides  it !  Well, 
what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Aunt  Maggie  thought  it  splendid  and  was  introduced  to 
Rollo,  and  "suddenly  seemed  to  lose  her  tongue,"  as  Lady 
Burdon  told  Lord  Burdon  at  lunch.  "Hugged  Percival 
as  though  she  hadn't  seen  him  for  a  year  and  scarcely 
looked  at  Rollo.  Jealous,  I  believe,  at  the  difference 
between  their  stations.  Funny,  that  kind  of  jealousy, 
don't  you  think?" 

But  it  was  not  jealousy  that  had  silenced  Aunt  Maggie 
and  caused  her  to  clutch  Percival  to  her  breast.    At 


LADY  BURDON  COMES  TO  "POST  OFFIC'^     151 

sight  of  him  with  Rollo,  and  of  Lady  Burdon  smiling  at 
him,  that  fluttering  had  run  up  in  her  brain,  and  she  had 
clasped  Percival  to  restrain  herself  while  it  lasted.  It 
had  gone  while  she  held  him ;  but  she  had  almost  cried  : 
"Do  you  dare  smile  at  him?  He  is  Audrey's  son! 
Audrey's  son  !" 

Percival  wriggled  from  her  embrace  and  she  heard  Lady 
Burdon  say  to  Rollo:  "Well,  why  not  a  pony  here?" 
and  heard  her  laugh  delightedly  at  the  excited  roar  the 
suggestion  shot  out  of  Percival. 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  anywhere  here  we  could  get  a 
pony  for  Rollo  ?  "  she  heard  Lady  Burdon  say,  and  heard 
the  question  repeated,  and  made  a  great  effort  to  come 
out  of  the  shaken  state  in  which  the  fluttering  had  left 
her. 

"Over  at  Market  Roding  you  might  get  a  pony,"  she 
said  dully.  "There  is  a  Mr.  Hannaford  there.  He  has 
ponies.     He  suppHes  ponies  to  circuses,  I  have  heard." 

Lady  Burdon  kissed  Percival  good-by  at  the  gate. 
"Lord  Burdon  shall  take  you  over  with  Rollo  to  this 
Mr.  Hannaford,"  she  told  him.  "That  Miss  Purdie's 
cottage  ?  We  are  going  to  look  in  on  our  way.  Run 
back  to  your  Aunt  Maggie.     She  is  tired,  I  think." 

"Well,  she's  thinking,  you  know,"  said  Percival. 

Lady  Burdon  laughed.  "Thinking,  is  she,  you  funny 
little  man?     Of  what?" 

And  Percival,  in  his  earnest  way:  "Well,  I  don't 
know.     It  'plexes  me,  you  know." 


CHAPTER  rV 


LITTLE   'ORSES    AND    LITTLE    STU-PIDS 


The  pony  was  obtained  from  Mr.  Hannaford  and  les- 
sons were  arranged  with  Miss  Purdie. 

It  was  the  happiest  party  that  occupied  the  wagonette 
on  that  drive  to  and  from  Mr.  Hannaford's  farm  at 
Market  Roding.  Lord  Burdon,  RoUo,  Percival  —  each 
declared  it  that  evening  to  have  been  the  very  jolHest 
time  that  ever  was. 

"Well,  we  have  had  a  jolly  day,  haven't  we,  old  man  ? " 
Lord  Burdon  said  to  Rollo  when  he  kissed  him  good  night. 
Lord  Burdon  had  worn  a  shabby  old  suit  and  had  told  the 
boys  stories  till,  as  he  assured  them,  his  tongue  ached ; 
and  had  walked  with  them  about  Mr.  Hannaford's  farm, 
with  Percival  prancing  on  one  side  and  Rollo  quietly 
beaming  on  the  other.  In  London,  in  the  life  that  Lady 
Burdon  directed  at  Mount  Street,  such  careless,  childish 
joys  were  impossible.  Not  since  the  day  he  had  spent 
with  Rollo  at  the  Zoological  Gardens,  when  Lady  Burdon 
was  at  Ascot,  had  he  so  completely  enjoyed  himself  — 
and  not  a  doubt  but  that  the  bursting  excitement  of  young 
Percival  was  responsible  for  the  far  greater  joviaHty  of 
this  day  at  Mr.  Hannaford's. 

"Did  I  tell  you  about  when  they  came  to  the  ditch 
while  we  were  walking  over  the  farm?"  Lord  Burdon 
asked  Lady  Burdon.     "That  Httle  beggar  Percival — " 

Lady  Burdon  looked  at  him  over  the  book  she  was  read- 

1S2 


LITTLE    'ORSES   AND   LITTLE   STU-PIDS     153 

ing.  ''Not  a  sixth  time,  please,  Maurice,"  she  said. 
"I'm  really  rather  tired  of  hearing  it,"  and  Lord  Burdon 
assumed  his  fooUshly  distressed  look  and  for  the  remain- 
der of  the  evening  sat  smiling  over  the  jolly  day  in  silence. 

The  jolliest  day  for  Rollo  !  He  had  been  the  quiet  one 
of  the  party  because  to  be  retiring  was  his  nature,  but 
when  Percival  shouted  and  when  Percival  jumped, 
Rollo's  heart  was  in  the  shout  and  Rollo's  spirit  bounded 
with  the  jump.  He  had  never  believed  there  could  be 
such  a  friend  for  him  or  so  much  new  fun  in  hfe.  Hither- 
to his  chief  companion  had  been  his  mother,  his  constant 
mood  a  dreamy  and  shrinking  habit  of  mind.  Vigorous 
Percival  introduced  him  to  the  novelty  of  "games," 
showed  him  what  mirth  was,  and  what  \dgorous  young 
hmbs  could  do.  The  jolHest  day  !  He  fell  asleep  that 
night  thinking  of  Percival ;  in  his  dreams  with  Percival 
raced  and  shouted ;  awakened  in  the  morning  with 
Percival  for  his  first  thought. 

And  of  course  it  was  the  jolliest  day  for  Percival.  "I 
never  had  such  fun,  you  know,"  Percival  declared  to 
Aunt  Maggie.  "I  rode  the  pony  all  alone  and  Mr. 
Hannaford  said  I  was  a  Pocket  Marvel ;  so  I  should  Uke 
to  know  what  you  think  of  that?" 

Mr.  Hannaford,  indeed,  was  mightily  pleased  with 
Percival.  Mr.  Hannaford  was  an  immensely  stout  man 
with  a  tremendously  deep  voice  and  with  very  twinkling 
little  eyes  set  in  a  superbly  red  face.  He  wore  brown 
leather  gaiters  and  very  tight  cord-breeches  and  a  very 
loose  tail-coat  of  tweed,  cut  very  square.  From  his 
habit  of  never  remo\dng  his  bowler  hat  in  the  house  even 
at  meals,  the  common  behef  was  that  he  slept  in  it,  and 
he  punctuated  his  sentences  when  he  spoke,  and  marked 
his  alternate  strides  when  he  walked,  by  tremendously 
loud  cracks  of  a  bamboo  cane  against  a  gaitered  leg.     It 


154  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

was  his  frequent  habit  when  he  desired  emphasis  to  bless 
what  he  termed  his  "eighteen  stun  proper,"  and  he  caused 
Rollo  to  giggle  by  his  trick  of  caUing  a  horse  "a.  norse." 

Mr.  Hannaford  received  his  visitors  by  raising  his  hat 
as  far  from  his  head  as  any  one  had  ever  seen  it,  by  giving 
three  terrific  cracks  of  his  cane  against  his  leg,  and  by 
extending  to  Rollo  and  Percival  in  turn  a  hand  of  the 
size  of  a  small  shoulder  of  mutton. 

"Well,  you've  come  to  the  right  place  for  a  Httle  'orse, 
me  lord,  bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  you  haven't," 
Mr.  Hannaford  declared.  "And  '11  want  a  proper  little 
'orse  for  your  lordship's  son,  moreover,"  continued  Mr. 
Hannaford,  after  another  tremendous  leg-and-cane  crack 
and  looking  admiringly  at  Percival. 

Percival  was  quick  with  the  correction.  "Oh,  I'm  not 
his  son.  I'm  only  a  little  boy,  you  know.  I  can  ride, 
though,  because  sometimes  I  pretend  I'm  a  horse  all  day 
long ;  so  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

Mr.  Hannaford  was  hugely  deUghted,  and  having 
begged  his  lordship's  pardon  for  the  mistake,  gave  it  as 
his  deliberate  opinion  that  a  young  gentleman  who  could 
pretend  he  was  a  norse  all  day  long  was  a  Pocket  Marvel. 

The  Pocket  Marvel  performed  a  prance  or  two  in  order 
to  show  that  this  estimate  of  him  was  well  merited,  and 
they  proceeded  to  the  stables,  Mr.  Hannaford,  as  they 
walked,  making  clear,  to  the  tune  of  astonishing  leg-and- 
cane  cracks,  the  reasons  why  the  right  place  for  a  Httle 
'orse  had  been  selected  by  his  lordship. 

"There's  money  in  little  'orses,"  said  Mr.  Hannaford. 
(Crack!)  "And  I'm  one  of  the  few  that  know  it." 
(Crack  !)  He  broke  ofif,  stared  towards  the  house,  face 
changing  from  its  superb  red  to  astonishing  purple,  and  to 
a  distant  figure  roared  "  Garge  ! "  in  a  voice  like  a  clap  of 
thunder.     "  Garge  !  Fetch  that  pig  out  of  the  flower  beds  ! 


LITTLE   'ORSES   AND   LITTLE   STU-PIDS     155 

You  want  my  stick  about  your  back,  Garge;  bless  my 
eighteen  stun  proper  if  you  don't." 

"Pardon,  me  lord,"  begged  Mr.  Hannaford,  bringing 
his  stick  back  to  his  leg  from  where  it  had  flourished 
at  Garge,  and  continuing:  "There's  more  demand  for 
little  'orses  than  anybody  that  hasn't  given  brain  to  it 
would  beKeve,  me  lord.  Gentlefolks'  little  girls  want 
little  'orses  and  gentlefolks'  httle  boys  want  Httle  'orses ; 
gentlefolks'  little  carts  want  little  'orses,  young  gentle- 
men want  little  polo  'orses,  and  circuses  want  little  trick 
'orses.  Where  are  they  going  to  get  'em  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Hannaford,  and  answered  his  question  with:  "They're 
coming  to  me."     (Crack  !) 

"Capital!"  declared  Lord  Burdon,  who  was  finding 
Mr.  Hannaford  a  man  nearer  to  his  liking  than  any  he 
had  met  within  the  radius  of  Mount  Street. 

"Capital's  the  word,"  agreed  Mr.  Hannaford.  "Bless 
my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  it  isn't !"  (Crack  !)  "It  will 
take  ttme,  mind  you,  me  lord.  I'm  doing  it  in  stages. 
Stage  Om  *  circus  little  'orses.  I  rackon  I'm  level  with 
Stage  Onf  now.  Started  with  circus  little  'orses  be- 
cause I  wasj  m  the  circus  Hne  once  and  my  brother  Martin 
—  Stingo  the/  call  him,  me  lord  —  is  in  it  now.  Proper 
connaction  with  circus  little  'orses  I've  worked  up. 
They  come  to  me  when  they  want  a  circus  Httle  'orse, 
bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  they  don't."  (Crack  !) 
"Stage  Two:  httle  gentlefolks'  Httle  'orses — just  start- 
ing that  now,  m()  lord.  Stage  Three :  gentlefolks'  Httle 
carts'  Httle  'orses.  Stage  Four  :  young  gentlemen's  Httle 
polo  'orses.  What  I  want,"  declared  Mr.  Hannaford 
with  a  culminating  crack  of  tremendous  proportions, 
"is  to  make  people  when  they  see  a  Httle  'orse  think 
of  Hannaford.  Hannaford  —  Httle  'orse ;  Httle  'orse  — 
Hannaford.     Two  words  one  meaning,  one  meaning  two 


156  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

words;  that's  my  lay  and  I'll  do  it,  bless  my  eighteen 
stun  proper  if  I  won't !"     (Crack!) 

"Ton  my  soul  it's  a  big  scheme,"  said  Lord  Burdon, 
highly  entertained  and  beginning  to  realise  that  this  was 
no  common  man. 

"Correct !"  Mr,  Hannaford  assured  him,  and  confided 
with  a  terrible  crack:  "I  call  it  a  whopper.  One  of 
these  days  Stingo  will  settle  down  and  join  me  and  there'll 
be  no  more  holding  us  than  you  can  hold  a  little  'orse 
with  your  finger  and  thumb." 

"Settle  down?"  Lord  Burdon  questioned,  greatly 
interested.     "Younger  than  you,  eh?" 

"Three  and  a  half  minutes,"  returned  Mr.  Hannaford, 
and  added,  "Twins, "  in  reply  to  Lord  Burdon's  exclama- 
tion of  surprise.  "Not  much  in  point  of  time,  but  very 
different  in  point  of  nature.  Wants  settling  do\Mi ;  then 
he'll  be  all  right.  You'll  see  Stmgo  in  a  minute,  me  lord ; 
he's  here,"  and  Mr.  Hannaford  pointed  to  the  Hne  of 
sheds  they  had  reached.  "On  a  visit,"  he  explained; 
and  added  with  a  heavy  sigh:  "Here  to-day  and  gone 
to-morrow;  that's  Stingo." 

He  unlatched  a  door.  "This  way,  me  lord.  Only 
wooden  stables  at  present ;  brick,  and  brick  floors,  that's 
to  come.  This  way,  my  young  lordship.  This  way, 
little  master ;  don't  you  be  a  little  'orse  now,  else  maybe 
we  shall  make  a  mistake  and  tie  you  up  in  a  stall." 

The  interior  was  dim.  Restless  movements  announced 
the  presence  of  several  Httle  'orses,  and  presently  was  to 
be  seen  a  line  of  plump  little  quarters,  mainly  piebald, 
one  or  two  more  sedately  coloured. 

"Gentleman  to  buy  a  little  'orse,"  announced  Mr. 
Hannaford ;  and  immediately  a  face  that  was  the  pre- 
cise replica  of  his  own  appeared  from  over  the  side  of  a 
partition. 


LITTLE   'ORSES   AND   LITTLE   STU-PIDS     157 

"Well  he's  come  to  the  proper  place  for  a  little  'orse," 
announced  the  face  in  a  very  husky  whisper  and  disap- 
peared again. 

"Why,  just  my  very  word?  !"  declared  Mr.  Hannaford 
with  high  dehght.  "Just  my  very  words,  bless  my  eigh- 
teen stun  proper  if  it  wasn't !  Step  out.  Stingo.  Lord 
Burdon,  over  from  Burdon,  with  his  young  lordship  and 
a — "  Mr.  Hannaford  stopped  and  stared  around  him. 
"Why,  wherever 's  that  young  Pocket  Marvel  got  to?" 

"I'm  here  !"  Percival  called  excitedly.  " I'm  stroking 
this  dear  Httle  black  one  and  he  knows  me ;  so  I  should 
Hke  to  know  what  you  think  of  that  ?  "  He  came  dancing 
out  from  the  stall  of  the  little  black  one,  his  face  blazing 
with  excitement,  and  simultaneously  the  repKca  of  Mr. 
Hannaford 's  face  appeared  again  and  a  repHca  of  Mr. 
Hannaford's  figure  advanced  towards  them. 

"Proud  !"  declared  the  repUca  in  a  strained  whisper, 
and  raised  his  hat.  "You're  doing  well,"  he  whispered 
to  Mr.  Hannaford.  "  You're  doing  uncommon  well." 
He  extended  his  hand  and  the  brothers  shook  hands,  very 
solemnly  on  the  part  of  the  replica,  with  beaming  dehght 
on  the  part  of  Mr.  Hannaford. 

"Steady  down,  boy;  steady  down  and  join  us,"  Mr. 
Hannaford  earnestly  entreated,  holding  Stingo's  hand 
and  gazing  into  his  face  with  great  fondness.  But  Stingo 
slowly  shook  his  head,  and  turning  to  Lord  Burdon  again, 
raised  his  hat  and  after  many  severe  throatings  managed 
a  husky  repetition  of  "Proud  !" 

Mr.  Hannaford  heaved  an  astonishingly  loud  sigh, 
pulled  himself  together  with  a  leg-and-cane  crack  that 
caused  all  the  Httle  'orses  to  start,  and  addressed  him- 
self to  business.  Little  master,  he  declared,  had  a  proper 
eye  for  a  proper  Httle  'orse.  The  Httle  black  'orse  that 
Httle  master  had  stroked  might  have  been  specially  born 


158  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

for  his  lordship's  purpose;  picked  up  at  Bampton  fair 
last  spring,  a  trifle  too  stout  and  not  quite  the  colouring 
for  a  circus  little  'orse  and  trained  to  be  the  first  of 
Stage  Two  :   little  gentlefolks'  Kttle  'orses. 

Concluding  this  recommendation,  Mr.  Hannaford 
put  his  head  outside  the  stable  and  roared  "Jim  !"  in  a 
voice  that  might  have  been  heard  at  Little  Letham ; 
Stingo  put  his  head  out  and  throated  "Jim  !"  in  a  husky- 
whisper  that  nobody  heard  but  himself;  and  presently 
there  appeared  a  long,  thin  youth  wearing  a  brimless 
straw  hat  that  was  in  constant  movement  owing  to  an 
alarming  habit  of  twitching  his  scalp. 

"FLx  him  up  and  run  him  out,"  commanded  Mr. 
Hannaford,  jerking  a  thumb  at  the  httle  black  'orse; 
"and  keep  your  scalp  steady,  me  lad,  else  you'll  do  your- 
self a  ninjury."  He  glared  very  fiercely;  and  Jim, 
touching  an  eyebrow  which  a  violent  twitch  had  rushed 
up  to  the  point  that  should  have  been  covered  by  the 
brimless  straw  hat,  took  down  a  bridle  and  approached 
the  little  black  'orse  with  the  air  of  one  who  anticipates 
some  embarrassment. 

Mr.  Hannaford's  stables  looked  on  to  a  small  enclosed 
paddock,  much  cut  about  with  hoofs  and  marked  in  the 
centre  by  a  deeply  trodden  ring,  around  which,  as  he  ex- 
plained, the  Uttle  'orses  were  put  through  their  circus 
paces. 

Rollo  shyly  held  his  father's  hand;  Stingo  revolved 
slowly  on  his  own  axis  the  better  to  keep  a  surprised  eye 
on  Percival,  who  pranced  and  bounded  with  excitement ; 
and  presently  the  little  black  'orse,  with  tossing  head 
and  delighted  heels,  was  produced  before  them. 

"Now  !"  said  Mr.  Hannaford,  patting  the  Httle  black 
'orse  with  one  hand  and  extending  the  other  to  Rollo. 
"Up  you  come,  my  little  lordship.    Nothing  to  be  afraid 


LITTLE    'ORSES   AND   LITTLE   STU-PIDS     159 

of.  Only  his  fun  that.  Steady  as  a  little  lamb  when 
you're  on  his  back  —  perfectly  safe,  me  lord,"  he  assured 
Lord  Burdon. 

But  RoUo  hung  back,  nestling  his  hand  deeper  into  his 
father's  and  flushing  with  nervous  appeal  into  Lord 
Burdon's  face.  His  riding  in  the  Park  did  not  accommo- 
date the  natural  timidity  of  his  nature  to  the  adventures 
of  a  strange  mount,  and  less  so  to  the  doubtful  prospects 
that  the  spirit  of  the  Httle  black  'orse  appeared  to  offer. 
Lord  Burdon  understood,  and  patted  Rollo's  hand. 
"Not  feeling  quite  up  to  it,  old  man?  Well,  we'll  ask 
Mr.  Hannaford  to  send  the  pony  over  to  the  Manor,  and 
try  him  there,  eh  ?  " 

"Blest  if  you  ain't  right,  me  young  lordship,"  declared 
Mr.  Hannaford  tactfully.  "Never  be  hurried  into  trying 
a  new  Httle  'orse.  That's  the  way.  Jim  shall  bring 
him  round  for  you,  me  lord,  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
Walk  him  up  the  field,  Jim,  to  let  his  lordship  see  how  he 
moves." 

Jim  clicked  his  tongue,  the  little  black  'orse  bounded 
amain,  and  Percival,  who  had  been  watching  with  burning 
eyes,  could  control  himself  no  longer.  "Oh,  let  me!" 
Percival  cried.  "Just  one  tiny  little  ride  !  Lord  Burdon, 
please  let  me  !     I  Hreat  you  to  let  me  !" 

"Why,  you  can't  ride,"  Lord  Burdon  objected  play- 
fully. 

' '  I  could  ride  him  anywhere  ! ' '  Percival  implored .  '  *  He 
knows  me.  Just  look  how  he's  looking  at  me.  Oh, 
please  —  please!"  and  he  ended  with  a  shout  of  delight, 
for  Lord  Burdon  nodded  to  Mr.  Hannaford  and  Mr. 
Hannaford  swung  Percival  from  the  ground  into  the 
saddle. 

"Shorten  up  that  stirrup-iron,  Jim,"  said  Mr.  Hanna- 
ford, stuffing  Percival's  foot  into  the  stirrup  on  his  side. 


i6o  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"  Catch  hold  this  way,  little  master.  Stick  in  with  your 
knees.     That's  the  way.     Run  him  out,  Jim." 

The  straw-hatted  youth  made  a  clutch  at  the  bridle, 
the  Httle  black  'orse  jerked  up  its  little  black  head,  and 
Percival  jerked  up  the  bridle  and  cried:  ''Let  go!  let 
go!"  and  kicked  a  stirruped  foot  at  the  straw-hatted 
youth  and  cried :     "He  knows  me,  I  tell  you  !" 

"Pocket  Marvel,"  commented  Stingo  huskily,  watch- 
ing the  struggle.     "Pocket  Marvel,  if  ever  I  saw  one." 

"Why,  that's  just  the  very  words  that  I  called  him, 
bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  it  isn't!"  cried  Mr. 
Hannaford  in  huge  delight;  and  simultaneously  the 
straw-hatted  youth,  with  a  terrible  cry  and  a  tremendous 
jerk  of  the  scalp,  received  a  pawing  hoof  on  his  foot  and 
relaxed  his  hold  on  the  bridle. 

Away  went  the  httle  black  'orse  and  away  went  the 
Pocket  Marvel  bounding  in  the  saddle  hke  an  india- 
rubber  ball;  shouting  with  delight;  losing  a  stirrup; 
clutching  at  the  saddle ;  saving  himself  by  a  miraculous 
twist  as  the  little  black  'orse  circled  at  the  top  of  the 
field;  bumping  higher  and  higher  as  the  Httle  black 
'orse  came  gamely  trotting  back  to  them,  and  finally 
shooting  headfirst  into  Mr.  Hannaford's  arms,  as  Stingo 
caught  the  bridle  and  the  httle  black  'orse  came  to  a 
stop. 

Mr.  Hannaford  placed  Percival  on  his  legs  and  he 
stood  by  the  little  black  'orse's  side,  breathless,  flushed, 
the  centre  of  general  congratulations  and  laughter,  from 
the  deep  "Ho  !  Ho  !"  and  terrible  leg-and-cane  cracks  of 
Mr.  Hannaford  to  the  silent  signals  of  appreciation  in- 
dicated by  the  rapid  oscillation  of  the  brimless  straw  hat 
on  the  astonishing  scalp  movements  of  Jim. 

"Well,  I'm  afraid  I  got  off  rather  too  quickly,  you 
know,"  he  announced. 


LITTLE   'ORSES   AND   LITTLE   STU-PIDS    i6i 

"Not  a  bit  of  it !"  Mr.  Hannaford  declared  stoutly, 
rubbing  that  portion  of  his  waistcoat  into  which  Perci- 
val's  head  had  cannoned.  "You  got  off  same  as  you 
stuck  on;  Hke  a  regular  little  Pocket  Marvel,  bless  my 
eighteen  stun  proper  if  you  didn't." 

The  Pocket  Marvel  went  crimson  with  new  pride  and 
excitement.  He  made  to  turn  eagerly  to  the  little  black 
'orse  again;  and  there  occurred  then  an  incident  of 
which  he  thought  nothing  at  the  time,  nor  for  many  years, 
but  which  secreted  itself  in  that  strange  storehouse  of  the 
brain  where  tri\daUties  permanently  root  themselves  and 
whence  they  stir,  shake  off  the  dust  and  emerge,  when  the 
impressions  of  far  greater  events  are  obHterated.  As  he 
stretched  a  hand  to  the  bridle,  he  caught  a  ghmpse  of 
Rollo's  face.  Distress  not  far  removed  from  tears  was 
there.  The  boy  was  conceaUng  himself  behind  his 
father.  His  sensitive  nature  caused  him  to  feel  that  the 
laughing  group,  when  it  turned  attention  to  him,  would 
to  his  detriment  compare  him  with  this  bold  young 
junior ;  he  shrank  from  that  moment. 

Percival  turned  away  from  the  little  black  'orse  and 
ran  to  him.  "Now  it's  your  turn,  Rollo.  You  see,  he 
knew  me  from  the  beginning,  and  that's  why  he  liked  me 
to  ride  him.  Now  you  try.  I  promise  you  I  shall  run 
by  his  side  and  then,  you  see,  he'll  know  you're  a  friend 
of  mine." 

He  took  Rollo's  hand  and  drew  him  forward.  "Sure 
you'd  like  to,  old  chap?"  Lord  Burdon  asked,  and 
Rollo  said;  "Oh,  yes,"  and  mounted  by  himself,  as  he 
had  been  taught  in  London. 

"There  you  are  !"  cried  Percival,  beaming  up  at  him 
and  clapping  his  hands  with  delight.  "There  you  are  ! 
Now,  then  ! "  And  he  set  off  rimning  alongside  as  he  had 
undertaken,  as  the  Uttle  black  'orse  broke  into  a  trot. 


i62  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Once  in  the  saddle,  Rollo  abandoned  his  fears  and  rode 
easily.  The  little  black  'orse  outpaced  Percival's  small 
legs,  and  Percival  came  running  back  and  took  Lord 
Burdon's  hand  and  watched  with  eager  eyes  and  squirmed 
with  delight. 

"He  doesn't  bump  Like  I  did,  you  see,"  he  said.  "Look 
how  he  turns  him  !"  and  he  freed  his  hand  and  clapped 
and  shouted :  "Well  done,  Rollo  !" 

"'Pon  my  soul,  Percival,  you're  a  devilish  good  Httle 
beggar,"  said  Lord  Burdon ;  and  a  similar  thought  was 
in  the  minds  of  the  brothers  Hannaford  when,  the  pony 
purchased,  they  watched  the  wagonette  drive  from  the 
farm.  "I  shall  save  up  and  come  with  my  Aunt  Maggie 
and  buy  one  too,"  Percival  declared,  gi\ing  his  hand  to 
Mr.  Hannaford  over  the  side  of  the  trap.  "In  my 
money-box  I've  got  three  shilUngs  already ;  so  I  should 
nke  to  know  what  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"Pocket  Marvel,  that  Uttle  master,"  commented  Mr. 
Hannaford,  as  the  wagonette  turned  out  of  sight. 

Stingo  made  three  husky  attempts  at  speech  and  at 
length  whispered:  "Thought  he  was  the  young  lord- 
ship when  I  first  saw  'em." 

Mr.  Hannaford  beamed  with  delight  and  extended  his 
hand.  "Why,  that's  just  what  I  thought ! "  he  declared ; 
"bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  it  wasn't.  Steady 
down,  boy,  steady  down  and  Join  us." 

But  Stingo's  handshake  was  limp,  and  he  shook  his 
head  slowly. 

n 

Then  there  were  the  lessons  with  Miss  Purdie.  Very 
considerably  less  satisfactory,  these,  than  the  tearing 
excitements  that  the  pony  pro\dded,  yet  havdng  plenty  of 


LITTLE   'ORSES   AND   LITTLE   STU-PIDS     165 

fun  for  Percival's  eager  young  mind,  and  increasing  along 
a  new  path  the  intimacy  between  the  two  boys.  Rollo 
was  the  more  advanced;  but  his  grounding!  "Your 
grounding,"  as  Miss  Purdie  would  cry,  "is  shoe-king! 
Grounding  is  everything!  Look  at  this  sum  !  What  is 
seven  times  twelve,  sir?  .  .  .  then  why  have  you  put 
down  a  six  ?  How  dare  you  laugh,  Percival  ?  You  are 
worse!  Rollo,  it's  no  good  !  You  must  begin  at  the 
beginning.     Grounding  is  everything!" 

Terribly  frightening,  Miss  Purdie,  when  swept  by  her 
Kttle  storms.  Rather  Hke  a  Httle  bird,  Miss  Purdie,  with 
her  sharp  Httle  glances  from  behind  her  spectacles. 
"Don't  put  your  tongue  out  when  you  write,  Percival ! 
What  would  you  think  of  me,  if  I  moved  my  tongue  from 
comer  to  corner  every  time  I  write,  like  that?  DonH 
laugh  at  me,  sir  !" 

"Well,  it  comes  out  by  itself,"  Percival  expostulates, 
"and  I  don't  even  know  that  it  is  out,  you  know;  so  I 
should  like  to  know  what  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"I  don't  think  any  thing  about  it,"  says  Miss  Purdie, 
with  a  stamp  of  her  little  foot.  "That  stu-pid  ques- 
tion of  yours !  How  often  have  I  told  you  not  to  use 
it?" 

Very  Hke  a  Httle  bird,  Miss  Purdie,  with  her  sharp  Httle 
glances,  with  her  nimble  Httle  hops  to  and  fro,  and  with 
her  perky  Httle  cockings  of  the  head  on  this  side  and  the 
other  as  she  encourages  an  answer. 

"Now  the  grammar  lesson  and  I  hope  you've  both  pre- 
pared it.  Gender  of  nouns.  MascuHne,  Govern-or. 
Feminine?^' 

"Govern-e55,"  venture  the  boys,  a  trifle  apprehen- 
sively. 

"Good  boys!     MascuHne,  Sorcer-er.     Feminine?" 

"Sorcer-e55,"  says  the  chorus,  gathering  courage. 


i64  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Masculine,  Cater-er.     Feminine?" 

"Cater-g55,"  bawls  the  chorus,  thoroughly  enjoying 
itself. 

^^Not  so  loud!    Masculine,  Murder-er.     Feminine?" 

"Murder-C55,"  howls  the  chorus,  recklessly  dehghted. 

"Good  boys!  Now  be  careful!  Prosecutor?  Take 
time  over  it.     MascuKne,  Prosecut-or.     Feminine?" 

"  Prosecutr-e<yj  / "  thunders  the  chorus,  plunging  to 
destruction  on  the  swing  of  the  thing;  and  "Oh,  you 
5/M-pids  !  you  5/w-pids!"  cries  Miss  Purdie.  "You  in- 
tol-er-able  5/M-pids!"  and  the  unhappy  chorus  hangs 
its  head  and  cowers  beneath  the  little  storm  it  has  let 
loose. 

Delightfully  appreciative,  though.  Miss  Purdie,  when 
the  "break"  of  ten  minutes  comes  and  when  the  boys 
gorge  plum-cake  and  milk  and  make  her  positively  quiver 
with  recitals  of  the  terrible  gallops  on  the  pony;  and 
dehghtfully  concerned,  too,  when,  as  happens  once  or 
twice,  Rollo  is  discovered  to  have  a  headache  and  is  made 
to  lie  on  the  sofa  in  a  rug  and  with  a  hot-water  bottle, 
while  the  lessons  are  continued  with  Percival  in  fierce 
whispers  and  hissed  "s/w-pids."  Delightfully  incon- 
sequent, moreover,  Miss  Purdie,  who  at  the  end  of  an 
especially  exasperating  morning,  when  Hunt  is  heard  with 
the  pony  outside  the  gate,  will  suddenly  cry  :  "Well,  go 
away  then,  you  thorough  Httle  5/w-pids;  go  away  !"  and 
will  drive  them  to  the  door  and  then  at  once  will  go  into 
ecstatics  over  the  pony  and  hurry  Percival  in  for  sugar, 
and  quake  with  terror  while  the  pony  nibbles  it  from  her 
hand,  and  stand  and  wave  at  her  gate  while  they  go 
flying  down  the  road,  one  in  the  saddle,  the  other  gasping 
behind. 

Dehghtfully  appreciative.  Miss  Purdie,  and  they  learn 
to  love  her  for  all  their  terrible  fear  of  her. 


LITTLE   'ORSES  AND   LITTLE   STU-PIDS     165 

Percival,  Miss  Purdie  finds,  is  the  more  affectionate  — 
also  the  more  troublesome.  Rollo  takes  his  cue  from 
Percival  and  acts  accordingly.  "You  are  the  ring- 
leader!" cries  Miss  Purdie,  stabbing  a  forefinger  at 
Percival  on  the  fearful  morrow  of  the  day  on  which 
truant  was  played  —  whose  morning  had  seen  Miss 
Purdie  running  between  her  house  and  her  gate  like  a 
distressed  hen  abandoned  by  her  chickens ;  whose  after- 
noon had  seen  the  alarm  communicated  to  Burdon  Old 
Manor  and  to  "Post  Ofiic"  ;  and  whose  evening  had  dis- 
covered the  disconsolate  return  to  the  \Tillage  of  two 
travel-stained  and  weary  figures.  "You  are  the  ring- 
leader in  everything,  and  I  don't  know  whether  you 
ought  to  be  more  ashamed  or  you"  —  and  she  turns 
from  the  ringleader  to  stab  her  finger  at  the  ring,  as 
represented  by  Rollo  — *'or  you,  for  allowing  yourself  to 
be  led  away  by  one  so  much  younger." 

''I've  told  you,"  protests  Percival,  "I've  told  you 
again  and  again  we  got  lost ;  so  I  shouJd  Hke  to  know 
what  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"Don't  use  that  a&om-inable  phrase,  sir  !  If  you  hadn't 
gone  off  —  tempted  Rollo  to  go  off  —  you  wouldn't  have 
got  lost,  would  you?" 

Percival  beams  at  her  in  his  disarming  manner.  "Well, 
you  see,  we  saw  a  fox  and  went  after  it  and  kept  on  seeing 
it  and  then  found  we  were  lost ;  so  I  should  Hke  — " 

"Don't  argue.     I  tell  you,  you  are  the  nwg-leader  ! " 

She  pauses  and  glares.  "I  should  like  to  tell  you," 
says  the  ringleader,  still  beaming,  "about  a  very  funny 
thing  we  saw.     We  saw  — " 

"Stand  in  the  corner  !"  cries  Miss  Purdie.  "Stand  in 
the  corner!  You  are  incorrigible!"  and  she  turns  to 
RoUo  with  "Geography,  sir!"  in  a  voice  that  causes 
him  to  tremble. 


i66  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

III 

Certainly  Percival  is  the  leader.  He  has  the  instinct 
of  leadership.  It  is  to  be  noted  in  the  carriage  and  in  the 
demeanour  of  his  vigorous  young  person.  A  sturdy  way 
of  standing  he  has :  squarely,  with  his  round  chin  up,  his 
head  thrown  back,  his  knees  always  braced,  his  arms 
never  hanging  limply  but  always  slightly  flexed  at  the 
elbows  as  though  alert  for  action,  his  eyes  widely  opened, 
his  gaze  upwards  and  about  him  with  the  challenging  air 
of  one  who  expects  entertainments  to  arise  and  would  be 
quick  to  greet  them.  He  is  rarely  still;  he  is  rarely 
silent.  A  brisk  way  of  movement  he  has ;  a  high  young 
voice;  a  compelling  laugh  with  a  clear  note  of  "Ha! 
Ha  !  Ha  ! "  as  though  the  matter  that  tickles  him  tickles 
him  with  the  boniest  knuckles  wherever  he  is  ticklish. 
He  has  the  instinct  of  leadership.  When  he  is  with  Rollo 
and  an  affair  arises,  he  does  not  suggest  a  plan  of  action ; 
he  immediately  acts.  On  their  rambles,  when  an  obstacle 
or  an  emergency  is  discovered,  it  instantly  arouses  in  him 
a  reflex  action  by  which  vigorously,  and  without  estimate 
of  its  difl&culties,  it  is  attacked.  "You  are  so  thoughtless, 
Percival,  so  thoughtless!"  Aimt  Maggie  cries  when  he 
explains  a  mired  and  dripping  state  with  "I  jumped  the 
ditch  and  found  I  couldn't  jump." 

"Well,  but  I  wanted  to  get  across,  you  see,"  Percival 
explains. 

"If  you  had  looked  fijst  you  would  have  seen  you 
couldn't  get  across," 

"Well,  but  I  did  get  across  !" 

"You  didn't;  you  fell  in,  you  stupid  little  boy." 

"But  I  got  across,^'  beams  Percival ;  and  Aunt  Maggie 
undoes  her  scolding  by  kissing  him.  She  has  marked  this 
impetuous  and  determined  spirit  in  him ;  and  she  knows 


I 


LITTLE   'ORSES   AND   LITTLE   STU-PIDS     167 

It  for  the  "  I  hold  "  spirit  that  is  his  by  right  of  birth  ;  one 
day  he  will  present  it  to  Lady  Burdon. 

He  had  the  instinct  of  leadership.  At  first,  in  the 
excursions  with  Rollo,  he  unconsciously  expected  in  Rollo 
a  spirit  equal  to  and  similar  with  his  own.  At  first,  when 
he  ran  suddenly,  or  suddenly  took  a  great  jump,  or  set  off 
at  a  quick  trot  towards  some  distant  excitement,  he  ex- 
pected to  find  Rollo  at  his  side  and  was  surprised  to  turn 
and  find  him  hanging  back,  timid  or  tired.  Very  shortly 
he  accepted  the  difference  between  them  and  emphasized 
that  he  was  leader.  It  became  natural  to  him  that,  with 
the  action  of  starting  to  run  or  of  storming  a  stout  hedge, 
he  should  give  to  Rollo  a  hand  that  would  aid  him  along 
or  pull  him  through.  It  became  natural,  when  a  difficult 
place  was  reached,  to  release  the  hand  with  a  httle  con- 
fident movement  that  implied  "Stay;"  to  rush  the  ob- 
stacle; somehow  to  scramble  to  the  further  side,  and 
then  turn  and  cry  directions  and  encouragement,  end- 
ing always  with  "I  '11  catch  you,  you  know;  you'll  be 
all  right." 

And  as  the  weeks  went  on,  the  complement  of  this 
hardy  spirit  became  natural  to  Rollo.  Percival  put  out 
the  hand  of  aid ;  the  hand  that  desired  aid  was  always 
ready.  Rollo's  hand  acquired  the  habit  of  relying  on 
Percival  for  physical  support ;  his  mind  came  to  depend 
on  Percival  for  moral  benefit.  However  they  were 
employed,  he  took  his  note  from  his  leader.  If  Percival 
chose  to  be  idle  at  their  lessons,  Rollo  also  would  be  inat- 
tentive and  mischievous.  On  the  days  when  Percival  was 
immense  in  his  promises  to  work  hard,  Rollo  would 
sedulously  apply  himself.  Percival  led ;  he  followed. 
Percival  called  the  tune ;  Rollo  danced  to  it.  Percival 
stretched  the  hand ;  Rollo  took  it. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   WORLD  AS   SHOWMAN:    ALL  THE  JOLLY  FUN 


The  stay  at  Burdon  Old  Manor  came  to  an  end ;  it  had 
been  so  productive  of  health  and  happiness  in  Rollo,  he 
became,  as  years  went  on,  so  much  more  and  more  devoted 
to  Percival,  that  it  was  made  the  beginning  of  regular 
visits.  The  Manor  continued  to  doze  for  the  most  part 
under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Housekeeper  Ferris,  with  Mr. 
Librarian  Amber's  library  the  only  room  that  had  no 
dust  sheets  about  the  furniture ;  but  there  were  periodic 
openings :  always  a  visit  at  Easter  before  the  London 
season  began,  always  a  visit  in  August  reaching  into 
October  when  the  London  season  was  ended. 

The  visits  marked  the  fullest  times  of  Percival's  life,  as 
they  marked  the  happiest  of  Rollo's ;  but  Kfe  was  steadily 
and  joyously  filled  for  Percival  in  these  days,  and  he  with 
a  zest  for  it  that  carried  him  ardently  along  the  hours. 

The  years  were  passing ;  he  grew  apace.  It  was  a 
period,  the  villagers  told  one  another,  of  rare  proper 
weather :  the  winters  hard  with  all  the  little  hamlets 
tethered  along  Plowman's  Ridge  sometimes  cut  off  for 
days  together  by  heavy  falls  of  snow ;  the  springs  most 
gentle  and  most  radiant,  escaping  with  a  laugh  from 
Winter's  bondage  and  laughing  down  the  lanes  and  up  the 
hedgerows  and  through  the  fields,  where  ever}^  mother, 
from  earth  that  mothered  all,  was  fruitful  of  her  kind; 

i68 


THE  WORLD  AS   SHOWMAN  169 

the  summers  glorious,  with  splendid  days  joining  hands 
with  splendid  days  to  form  a  stately  chain  of  sunshine 
through  the  warmer  months. 

Rare  proper  weather  with  the  energy  of  its  period  in 
every  hour,  and  Percival  that  energy's  embodiment. 
He  grew  properly,  the  villagers  said,  and  knew  without  a 
second  glance  what  figure  it  was  that  went  scudding 
along  the  Down  in  the  young  mornings,  and  knew  with- 
out a  second  thought  whose  voice  came  singing  to  them  as 
they  stooped  in  their  fields  or  trudged  behind  their  herds. 
He  grew  lustily ;  lissom  of  limb,  as  might  be  seen ;  eager 
and  finely  turned  of  face ,  having  an  air  and  a  wide  eye 
that  caused  chance  tourists  to  turn  and  look  again ;  very 
big  of  spirit,  as  those  kn(;w  who  had  the  handling  of  him. 

"He's  getting  that  independent  there's  no  doing  a 
thing  with  him,"  stormed  Honor  one  day,  coming  with 
Percival  (both  very  red  in  the  face)  to  lay  a  passage  of 
arms  for  arbitrament  before  Aunt  Maggie. 

"Oh,  Percival !     And  Honor  is  so  kind  to  you  !" 

"I  know,  I  know;  but  she  tries  to  rule  me,  Aunt 
Maggie  !" 

"And  ruling  you  want,"  Honor  cried,  "as  your  Aunt 
Maggie  well  knows.     Spare  the  pickle  and  spoil  the  rod  ! " 

"You've  got  it  wrong!"  said  Percival  with  scornful 
triumph,  and  after  he  had  stalked  away,  his  head  thrown 
up  in  an  action  that  Aunt  Maggie  well  remembered  in 
Roly,  she  sought  to  placate  Honor  with  thoughts  that 
were  frequently  coming  to  her  in  those  days.  "He  is 
getting  big,  Honor.  I  think  we  forget  how  he  is  growing. 
We  mustn't  keep  him  in  too  tightly." 

Then  there  was  Miss  Purdie.  "To  my  face!"  cried 
Miss  Purdie,  fluttering  into  "Post  Offic"  one  afternoon, 
"to  my  face  he  called  the  sum  a  beastly  sum  —  the  sum. 
mind  you,  I  had  set  him  myself !    A  beastly  sum  !"  and 


lyo  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

then  completely  spoilt  the  horror  of  it  by  sighing  and 
winding  up,  "but  he  is  such  a  sweet.  So  lovable  !  So 
merry  !" 

"He's  growing,  you  see,"  joined  Aunt  Maggie. 

"Of  course,  he  is,"  agreed  Miss  Purdie.  "It's  just  his 
spirit.  He's  so  manly!''  and  she  gave  herself  a  little 
shake  and  said :  "Oh,  I  like  a  manly  boy  !" 

StiU,  the  truculence  of  character  that  had  brought  her 
warring  down  to  "Post  Offic"  remained  to  be  settled. 
Moreover,  the  boy's  mind  was  developing  outside  the 
range  of  Miss  Purdie's  primers  and  exercise  books. 
"He  wants  Latin,''  said  Miss  Purdie.  "He  wants 
algebra.  He  wants  Euclid  !"  and  the  ladies  decided  that 
his  tuition  had  better  be  handed  over  to  Miss  Purdie's 
brother,  who  could  supply  these  correctives.  They  shook 
hands  on  it  and  agreed  that  Mr.  Purdie  should  take  over 
the  duties  on  the  morrow.  On  the  doorstep  Miss  Purdie 
repeated  the  necessity  with  terrible  emphasis:  "He 
wants  Latin  !  He  wants  algebra  !  But  I  shall  miss  our 
lessons  together!     Oh,  dear,  how  I  shall  miss  them!" 

She  hurried  home  with  little  sniffs  which  she  strove  to 
check  by  repeating  very  fiercely:  "He  wants  Latin!" 

II 

Percival  took  up  with  immense  zest  the  new  freedom 
from  petticoat  control  and  the  new  regimen  of  lessons. 
He  liked  the  new  subjects ;  and  it  was  notable  in  him  that 
he  carried  into  the  exercise  of  his  tasks  the  same  quickness 
and  determination  with  which  he  entered  upon  —  and 
completed  —  all  pleasanter  affairs  that  came  to  his  hand. 
Mr.  Purdie,  for  his  part,  was  enchanted.  Mr.  Purdie  was 
plump  and  soft,  with  lethargic  ways  and  pronounced 
timidity  of  character.     In  his  youth  Mr.  Purdie  had  been 


THE  WORLD   AS   SHOWMAN  171 

called  to  the  Bar.  A  very  small  legacy  came  to  him 
thereafter,  and  his  lymphatic  nature  led  him  at  once  to 
abandon  town  Hfe,  to  go  to  sloth  at  his  ease  with  his  sister 
at  Burdon  village.  He  was  vastly  attracted  by  Percival. 
Very  shortly  after  their  introduction  as  master  and  pupil, 
he  came  to  Aunt  Maggie  with  the  suggestion  that  Percival 
might  spend  with  him  some  leisure  as  well  as  the  school- 
hours.  "A  boy  can  be  taught  in  his  play  as  well  as  his 
work,"  he  announced  in  his  pompous  manner.  "At 
Percival's  age,  and  as  he  grows,  there  are  things  in  which 
only  a  man  can  guide  him."  He  gave  one  of  his  shrill, 
absurd  chuckles:  "And  I  think  Master  Percival  likes 
me.     Eh,  Percival?" 

Percival  eyed  him  doubtfully.  He  could  not  see  stout 
and  soft  Mr.  Purdie  contributing  much  entertainment  to 
his  rambles.  "Well,  if  you  bring  your  tricycle,  we  might 
have  some  fun,"  he  admitted. 

Ah,  these  were  the  happy  days.  Happy,  happy  time  ! 
There  was  fun  in  alarming  Mr.  Purdie  during  their  walks 
by  taking  him  across  fields  that  had  fierce  cows;  by 
climbing  trees  with  the  plump  tutor  imploring  beneath ; 
by  pretending  to  go  out  of  depth  when  bathing  in  Fir- 
Tree  Pool,  with  the  plump  tutor  beseeching  from  the 
bank  like  an  agitated  hen  that  has  hatched  ducklings. 
There  was  particular  fun  in  the  tricycle. 

The  tricycle  was  an  immense  affair  of  remote  con- 
struction, having  the  steering-wheel  attached  by  a  bar 
behind  and  manipulated  by  handles  on  either  side  of  the 
seat  that  required  almost  as  much  winding  as  a  clock  — 
"twiddling"  Percival  called  it  —  when  the  machine  was 
to  be  deflected  from  a  straight  passage.  Percival's  legs 
were  too  short  for  the  treadles,  Mr.  Purdie's  too  soft 
for  propulsion  up  even  the  gentlest  incKne.  Tricycle 
excursions  took,  therefore,  the  form  of  laborious  pushing. 


172  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

with  inordinate  perspiration  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Purdie, 
until  the  brow  of  a  hill  was  gained,  when  Percival  would 
balance  upon  the  steering  wheel  bar,  Mr.  Purdie  in 
considerable  trepidation  on  the  seat,  and  away  they 
would  go  with  delighted  shoutings  from  Percival  —  legs 
dangling,  hands  clutching  the  plump  tutor's  coat  —  and 
anguished  entreaties  of  "Steady  !  steady  !  Don't  touch 
my  arms!  Don't  touch  my  arms!"  from  Mr,  Purdie, 
back-pedalling  tremendously,  clutcliing  at  the  brake, 
winding  at  the  handles.  Then  the  laborious  ascent  of 
the  next  slope,  Mr.  Purdie  dripping  at  every  pore, 
Percival  crimson  in  the  face  and  carrying  on  a  long 
argument:  "If  you'd  only  work  when  we  get  near  the 
bottom  and  not  use  that  rotten  brake,  we'd  get  halfway 
up  and  not  have  this  awful  pushing!" 

"Well,  kindly  do  not  push  me,"  says  Mr.  Purdie,  very 
hot. 

Happy,  happy  time  !  Disaster  came  on  the  day  on 
which  there  entered  Mr.  Purdie's  eye  the  fly  that  he 
always  dreaded.  Mr.  Purdie  in  the  seat  was  back- 
pedalHng  with  immense  caution  down  Five  Furlong  Hill ; 
Percival  on  the  steering  bar  behind  was  peering  ahead 
round  the  plump  tutor's  ample  girth  and  at  intervals 
urging  :   "Now  let  her  go  !" 

It  was  the  fly  that  let  her  go.  Whack  !  came  the  fly 
into  Mr.  Purdie's  eye.  "Whoa!"  cried  Mr.  Purdie. 
"Bother!  dear  me!  Whoa!"  Up  went  Mr.  Purdie's 
knees  in  the  twitch  of  pain ;  up  came  his  hand  to  his 
tortured  eye ;  round  went  the  released  pedals ;  forward 
shot  the  tricycle. 

"Hurrah!"  cried  Percival.  "Well  done!  Ripping 
of  you!" 

Mr.  Purdie,  between  agony  of  his  eye  and  terror  for 
his  safety,  gave  a  shrill  cry  of  dismay;    took  a  grab  at 


THE  WORLD  AS   SHOWMAN  173 

the  brake  and  a  grab  back  at  his  eye ;  received  two  ter- 
rible blows  on  the  backs  of  his  legs  that  fumbled  wildly 
for  the  whizzing  treadles,  and  barked  out:  "Brake  1 
Brake!     Fly  in  my  eye!" 

"Which  eye?"  Percival  shouted,  enjoying  the  speed 
enormously. 

The  alarmed  tutor  bundled  his  words  in  a  heap  the 
better  to  get  them  out  and  arrest  the  catastrophe  that 
threatened. 

"  Catchabrakeandontbesilly  !  Catchabrakeabekilled  !" 

They  whizzed  ! 

Percival  bawled  :  "We  don't  want  the  brake  !  I  can't 
reach  the  brake  !  I  like  it !  We're  simply  whizzing  ! 
Mind  your  legs  ! "  His  cap  was  gone.  His  hair  fluttered 
in  the  rushing  wind.  His  face  was  crimson  with  excited 
glee.  His  clear  laughter  on  its  strong  note  of  "Ha  !  Ha  ! 
Ha  !"  rose  high  above  the  rattKng  of  all  the  machine's 
vitals  and  the  cries  of  the  agonised  bearer  of  the  fly.  He 
clung  tightly  to  the  podgy  waist  and  shouted  :  "Ha  !  Ha  ! 
Ha!    We're  whizzing!     We're  whizzing!" 

Mr.  Purdie  took  another  six  hammers  on  his  legs  and 
struck  a  note  of  new  alarm. 

"I'm  blind,  you  know  !     I  can't  see  !     I  can't  steer  ! " 

"A  straight  road!"  Percival  bawled.  "Look  out, 
though  !     A  corner  coming  !" 

"How  can  I  look  out?  Draggle  your  legs  on  the 
ground  !" 

"Twiddle  to  the  left!"  Percival  bellowed.  "Ha  I 
Ha!    Ha!     Twiddle,  Mr.  Purdie,   twiddle!" 

Mr.  Purdie  twiddled  frantically ;  the  tricycle  outraced 
his  efforts.  "Look  out  for  yourself!"  from  Percival, 
and  with  a  loud  and  exceeding  bitter  cry  from  Mr.  Purdie, 
the  machine  plunged  at  the  hedge,  planted  Mr.  Purdie 
very  firmly  into  the  midst,  shot  Percival  firmly  on  top 


174  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

of  him,  took  a  violent  somersault  across  the  ditch  that 
skirted  the  hedge,  and  poised  itself  above  them. 

Mr.  Purdie's  last  despairing  cry  cut  sharply  across 
Percival's  peals  of  laughter  —  then  the  crash.  The 
fluttering  beat  of  wings  as  a  cloud  of  chaffinches,  terrified 
by  this  amazing  avalanche,  burst  from  the  floor  of  the 
wood  beyond  the  hedge,  then  peal  on  peal  of  laughter 
again  from  Percival. 

In  muffled  tones  from  the  depth  of  the  hedge :  "It  is 
a  miracle  we  are  not  killed.     Where  are  you,  Percival  ?  " 

Percival  checked  his  mirth  sufficiently  to  reply : 
"Well,  I  don't  know  where  I  am  !  My  head  is  down 
here,  but  where  my  legs  are  I  don't  know." 

"One  of  them  is  under  me  and  hurting  me  terribly. 
Move,  please," 

Between  the  peals  of  laughter:  "I  can't  move,  Mr. 
Purdie.  I'm  practically  standing  on  my  head,  you 
know." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  My  face  is  almost 
in  something  highly  unpleasant  —  a  dead  bird,  I  think. 
Please  stop  that  laughter  and  try  to  do  something.  The 
odour  here  is  most  noisome." 

"Well,  but  I  can't  stop  laughing.  Did  you  see  us 
shoot?" 

"Please  try  to  control  yourself.  I  did  not  see  us 
shoot." 

A  mighty  effort  causes  Percival's  head  and  shoulders 
to  come  up  with  a  jerk ;  Mr.  Purdie  feels  the  weight  of 
pupil  and  tricycle  removed  from  his  back,  and  there 
follows  another  crash  and  further  yells  of  laughter. 

In  mufiied  agony  from  the  hedge:  "Now  what  has 
happened?" 

"Well,  I'm  bothered  if  I  haven't  fallen  again!  I've 
fallen  out,  though." 


THE  WORLD  AS   SHOWMAN  175 

Out  of  the  depths:  "Percival !  Percival !  Don't  be 
such  a  silly  Uttle  boy!     Pull  me  out!" 

"Well,  I'm  all  mixed  up  in  this  awful  trike,  you  know. 
Now,  I'm  up  !" 

"  Pray  pull  me,  then.  I  am  retching  with  this  noisome 
smell." 

"Well,  there's  nothing  to  pull !"  cries  Percival,  plung- 
ing round  the  tremendous  stern  that  sticks  out  of  the 
hedge.     "Your  trousers  are  simply  tight T' 

Out  of  the  depths  :  "Teh  !  Teh  !  Push  me  sideways, 
then." 

The  mammoth  stern  is  pushed  sideways  and  hauled 
backways,  and  presently  begins  to  rise,  and  presently 
the  stout  tutor  is  ponderously  disgorged  from  the  hedge, 
and  staggers  forth  with  grunts  and  moans,  and  collapses 
on  the  roadside,  feet  in  ditch,  very  bedraggled  and  un- 
fortunate looking. 

"Don't  think  I'm  laughing  at  you,"  Percival  says. 
"I'm  reaUy  very  sorry  for  you.  But  you're  not  hurt, 
you  know.     Let  me  rub  you  down  with  leaves." 

"I  am  terribly  shaken.  Do  not  touch  me  for  a  few 
minutes,  please." 

"Is  the  fly  still  in  your  eye?" 

"I  don't  know  where  the  fly  is." 

"Your  trousers  are  awfully  torn." 

"Be  silent,  please.     I  am  dazed." 

He  remains  dazed  when  at  last  they  begin  to  trudge 
home,  the  wrecked  tricycle  left  for  a  cart.  But  at  the 
top  of  the  hill  that  plunged  them  to  disaster,  the  in- 
fectious spurts  of  laughter  at  his  side  challenge  his  self- 
esteem  and  he  sets  out  to  sound  his  reputation  in 
Percival' s  regard. 

"I  think  I  steered  rather  well,  considering  I  couldn't 
see." 


176  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Percival  is  always  generous  :  "Splendidly  !     Oh,  dear, 

I'm  aching  with  laughing  !" 

''I  was  only  afraid  for  you,  Percival." 

"We  whizzed,  you  know!    We  simply  whizzed!" 

Mr.  Purdie  glances  back  down  the  hill  and  shudders 

to  have  whizzed  it.     "Were  you  laughing  all  the  way 

down  ?  " 

"Anybody  would  laugh  at  a  whizz  Hke  that." 

The  plump  tutor  has  a  close  acquaintance  with  one 

person  who  would  not.     The  remark  pricks  him  and  he 

finds  a  comforting  answer.     "Only  very   silly  people 

laugh  at  danger." 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  it  was  danger,"  said  Percival; 

and  Mr.  Purdie  first  looks  at  him  thoughtfully  and  then 

gives  one  of  his  shrill,  absurd  chuckles. 

Ill 

Happy,  happy  time  !  There  were  the  visits  to  Mr. 
Hannaford,  always  made  on  a  whole  hoHday  because  an 
early  start  was  necessary,  where  the  little  'orse  farm  was 
progressing  famously  and  where  Percival  was  made  quite 
extraordinarily  welcome.  Terrible  leg-and-cane  cracks 
would  announce  in  which  quarter  of  the  farm  Mr.  Hanna- 
ford was  to  be  found,  and  Percival  would  discover  Mr. 
Hannaford  watching  a  little  circus  'orse  at  exercise,  or 
watching  the  builders  at  work  in  the  brick  stables  that 
were  slowly  displacing  the  line  of  sheds,  and  watching 
all  the  time  to  the  accompaniment  of  bello\^dng  instruc- 
tions punctuated  by  leg-and-cane  cracks  of  astounding 
volume. 

Percival  would  plant  himself  squarely  by  Mr.  Hanna- 
ford's  side  in  Mr.  Hannaford's  position  —  legs  apart, 
head  thrown  back  —  and  would  eagerly  follow  the  pro- 


THE  WORLD  AS  SHOWMAN  177 

ceedings  until  Mr.  Hannaford  suddenly  would  observe 
him  and  would  cry  in  a  voice  the  whole  farm  might  hear : 
*' Why,  it's  the  Httle  Pocket  Marvel !  Bless  my  eighteen 
stun  proper  if  it  ain't !  However  long  a  you  been  there, 
little  master?" 

Percival,  beaming  all  over  his  face  and  putting  his 
small  hand  into  the  tremendous  shake  of  Mr.  Hannaford's 
shoulder  of  mutton  fist :  "Only  about  ten  minutes,  thank 
you,  Mr.  Hannaford.  Don't  you  mind  me,  you  know. 
I  like  watching." 

"Ah,  and  I've  got  something  for  you  to  watch,"  Mr. 
Hannaford  would  say.  "Now  you  come  over  here  with 
me.     Got  that  Httle  lordship  with  you?" 

"Not  come  back  yet,"  Percival  would  reply,  capering 
along,  tremendously  happy.  "How  are  you  going  along, 
Mr.  Hannaford?     Properly?" 

"  Properly  to  rights  !  Look  at  that  now  ! "  And  with 
a  terrible  leg-and-cane  crack  Mr.  Hannaford  would 
pause  before  the  new  stables  and  call  Percival's  atten- 
tion to  some  new  feature  that  had  arisen  since  his  last 
visit.  "Names  on  the  doors,  d'you  see?  'Crocker's' 
on  that  door,  'Maddox's'  on  this  door.  Do  a  deal  in 
Httle  'orses  with  Crocker's  circus ;  take  your  gross  profit  ; 
set  aside  share  of  expenses ;  set  aside  wear  and  tear ; 
set  aside  emergency  fund;  take  your  net  profit;  build 
your  stable;  call  it  Crocker's.  Same  with  Maddox: 
deal,  gross,  share,  wear,  emergency,  net,  stable  —  call 
it  Maddox  !    What  d'you  think  of  that  for  a  notion?" 

"Why,  I  caU  it  jolly  fine,  Mr.  Hannaford,"  Percival 
repHes.  "I  call  that  a  proper  notion.  Reminds  you 
how  you  did  it,   doesn't  it?" 

"Why,  that's  just  exactly  what  it  does  do!"  cries 
Mr.  Hannaford,  enormously  delighted.  "Just  the  very 
notion  of  it,  bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  it  ain't ! 


178  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Now  you  come  along  over  here."  And  Mr.  Hannaford 
would  leg-and-cane  crack,  and  Percival  would  trot  and 
chatter,  over  to  another  marvel,  where  a  similar  perform- 
ance would  be  gone  through,  owner  and  spectator  tre- 
mendously happy,  and  both  profoundly  serious. 

Mr.  Hannaford  would  usually  propose  lunch  after  this. 
Mr.  Hannaford  permitted  no  women  in  his  establish- 
ment; but  the  long,  low-roofed  dining-room  in  the  old 
farmhouse  was  kept  at  a  shining  cleanliness,  and  the 
meal  was  invitingly  cooked,  by  a  one-armed  man  of 
astoundingly  fierce  appearance  and  astonishingly  mild 
disposition,  who  answered  to  the  names  of  Ob  and  Diah 
accordingly  as  Mr.  Hannaford  preferred  the  former  or 
latter  half  of  the  Obadiah  to  which  the  one-armed  man 
was  entitled,  and  who  had  left  the  greater  part  of  his 
missing  arm  in  the  lion's  cage  he  had  attended  when 
travelling  with  Maddox's  Monster  Menagerie  and  Royal 
Circus. 

Three  places  were  always  set  at  the  table  when  Percival 
visited.  One  for  Mr.  Hannaford  at  one  end,  one  at  the 
other  end  for  brother  Stingo  —  "in  case,"  as  Mr.  Hanna- 
ford would  say  —  and  one  on  Mr.  Hannaford's  right 
for  Percival.  There  was  a  tremendous  silver  tankard 
of  ale  for  Mr.  Hannaford,  a  similar  tankard  for  Percival 
—  requiring  both  hands  and  containing  milk  —  and  al- 
ways, when  Mr.  Hannaford  raised  the  dish-cover,  there 
developed  from  the  cloud  of  steam  a  plump  chicken  which 
Mr.  Hannaford  called  chickMW  and  Percival  chickmg 
and  which  they  both  fell  upon  with  quite  remarkable 
appetites. 

"Well,  it's  a  most  astonishing  thing  to  me,"  Percival 
would  say  when  the  cover  went  up,  and  the  chicken 
settled  out  of  the  steam.  "Most  amazing  !  You  know 
I  like  chicking  better  than  anything,  and  every  time  I 


THE  WORLD  AS   SHOWMAN  179 

come  you  just  happen   to  have  chicking  for  dinner ! 
Most  amazing  to  me,  you  know  !" 

And  Mr.  Hannaford  would  lay  down  the  carving  knife 
and  fork  and  stare  at  tha  chicken  and  say :  "Well,  it  is 
a  chickun  again,  so  it  is,  bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper 
if  it  ain't ! "  and  would  give  a  tremendous  wink  at  Ob  in 
order  to  enjoy  with  him  the  joke  arising  from  the  fact 
that  directly  Percival  was  sighted  on  the  farm  a  messen- 
ger was  sent  to  Ob  to  prepare  the  meal  that  Percival  Hked 
best. 

Then  they  would  eat  away,  and  pull  away  at  the  co- 
lossal tankards,  and  Percival  would  always  make  a  point 
of  saying  :   "Stingo  not  home?" 

A  long  pull  at  the  tankard  and  a  heavy  sigh  from  Mr. 
Hannaford:  "Not  just  yet,  little  master.  Still  restless, 
I'm  afraid.     Still  restless." 

And  Percival,  in  the  old  phrase  and  with  the  air  of  a 
grandfather:  "Well,  he'll  settle  down,  you  know.  He'll 
settle  down." 

"Why,  that's  just  what  I  say!"  Mr.  Hannaford 
would  exclaim,  immensely  comforted.  "Settle  down  — 
of  course  he  will !  Just  what  I'm  always  telling  him, 
bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  it  ain't!" 

Always  the  same  jolly  lunch,  always  the  same  mingled 
seriousness  and  jolly  fun,  always  the  same  jokes.  Per- 
cival did  not  know  that  much  of  it  was  carefully  planned 
by  Mr.  Hannaford  that  he  might  enjoy  the  fullest  relish 
of  the  Pocket  Marvel's  visit.  There  was  the  great 
chicken  joke,  there  was  also  the  killing  joke  for  the  pro- 
duction of  which  by  Percival  Mr.  Hannaford  would 
dawdle  lunch  to  an  inordinate  length. 

At  length  it  would  come  :  "Nothing  I  can  have  a  ride 
on,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Hannaford?"  Percival  would  say 
with  careful  carelessness. 


i8o  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Never  a  norse  fit  for  it,"  Mr.  Hannaford  would 
reply,  equally  off-hand. 

A  heavy  sigh  from  Percival :  "Oh,  dear!  Sure,  I 
suppose?" 

"Certain!  Got  a  little  brown  'orse  —  but  there, 
you'd  never  ride  him." 

"  I  bet  I  would  !     I  bet  I  would  ! " 

Mr.  Hannaford,  looking  terribly  fierce  and  in  a  very 
violent  voice  :   "Bet  you  wouldn't !" 

"Try  me,  then  !     Only  try  me  !" 

And  Mr.  Hannaford  would  bounce  up  and  seize  his 
cane,  and  they  would  rush  ofi',  and  the  saddle  would  be 
put  on  the  little  brown  'orse,  and  Percival  would  mount 
him  and  gallop  him  and  cry  "You  see!  You  see!" 
And  Mr.  Hannaford  would  pretend  huge  amazement 
and  declare  that  Percival  was  a  proper  little  Pocket 
Marvel,  bless  his  eighteen  stun  proper  if  he  wasn't. 

Once  or  twice  Stingo  would  be  there,  and  then  the  jolly 
fun  would  be  jolher  than  ever ;  and  in  the  evening  Mr. 
Hannaford's  gig  with  the  big  black  mare  would  come 
around  and  the  brothers  would  labour  up  into  the  seat 
and  Percival  would  squeeze  in  between  them  and  they 
would  let  him  drive  and  he  would  pop  the  mare  along 
at  a  lashing  speed  and  there  would  be  the  highest  good- 
fellowship.  He  would  be  set  down  at  the  top  of  Five 
Furlong  Hill  —  nothing  would  induce  Mr.  Hannaford 
to  come  into  the  village  where  women  might  be  met. 
"Well,  good  night,  Mr.  Hannaford;  good  night,  Mr. 
Stingo.  Thank  you  most  awfully  for  all  your  kindness 
to  me.     I  hope  I'll  come  again  soon." 

The  brothers  would  usually  wait  until  he  reached  the 
turning  to  the  village ;  setting  up,  the  one  a  husky 
shout,  and  the  other  a  terrible  bellow,  in  reply  to  the 
faint  "  Good  night ! "  that  came  to  them  through  the  dusk. 


I 


I 


THE  WORLD  AS   SHOWMAN  i8i 

"I  never  in  all  my  life  took  to  nothing,  not  even  a 
little  'orse,  like  I  have  to  that  little  master,"  Mr. 
Hannaford  would  say.  "Never  seen  such  a  proper  one, 
never." 

And  Stingo,  with  painful  huskiness :  ''Ought  to  ha' 
been  a  little  lordship  !" 

"Why,  that's  just  exactly  what  I  say,"  Mr.  Hanna- 
ford would  reply,  enormously  pleased.  "Bless  my  eigh- 
teen stun  proper  if  it  isn't!" 

IV 

Happy,  happy  time  !  There  were  the  visits  to  mild 
old  Mr.  Amber  in  the  hbrary  at  Burdon  Old  Manor. 
Strongest  contrast,  the  delights  here,  to  those  enjoyed 
among  the  little  'orses.  Strongest  contrast,  mild  old 
Mr.  Amber  with  his  stooping  shoulders  and  his  gentle 
ways,  to  tremendous  Mr.  Hannaford  with  his  lusty  back 
and  his  vigorous  habits. 

But  the  same  eager  welcome:  "Well,  well.  Master 
Percival,  this  is  indeed  a  pleasant  surprise  !  And  we  are 
just  sitting  down  to  our  tea  —  and  I  declare  Mrs.  Ferris 
has  sent  us  some  strawberry  jam  !  Now  if  that  isn't  too 
fortunate  I  don't  know  what  is  !" 

"Well,  it's  awfully  jolly,"  Percival  agrees.  "Mrs. 
Ferris  makes  very  nice  strawberry  jam,  doesn't  she?" 

In  the  act  of  pouring  tea,  mild  old  Mr.  Amber  sets  down 
the  pot  and  emphasises  with  his  glasses.  "My  dear  sir  — • 
my  dear  Percival,  she  makes  the  very  best  strawberry 
jam !  Mrs.  Ferris  has  made  that  strawberry  jam  for 
forty  years  —  to  our  certain  knowledge,  for-ty  years." 

Percival's  rounded  eyes  show  his  appreciation  of  this 
consistent  industry.  "Must  have  made  a  lot,"  is  his 
comment. 


i82  THE  HAPPY   WARRIOR 


IC 


'Tons,"  says  Mr.  Amber.  "My  dear  sir  —  my  dear 
Percival,  I  should  say — tons."  He  stabs  the  glasses  at 
his  listener.  "And  every  berry,  sir,  every  single  berry, 
wet  season  or  dry,  from  our  own  gardens  !" 

It  always  comes  back  to  that  with  Mr.  Amber.  The 
old  Manor,  the  House  of  Burdon,  is  his  world  and  his 
life,  and  he  is  mightily  jealous  you  shall  know  their 
quality. 

There  is  generally  a  little  interlude  of  this  kind  in  the 
course  of  the  visit.  Its  effect  stays  for  a  few  minutes, 
Mr.  Amber  slowly  repeating  to  himself  "every  berry  — 
every  single  berry,  sir,"  in  the  tone  of  one  impressively 
warning  against  any  challenge  of  his  statement ;  and  then 
he  simmers  down  and  recollects  that  his  visitor  is  the 
Percival  who  occupies  a  large  portion  of  his  heart.  He 
likes  to  take  Percival's  hand.  He  Kkes  to  feel  that  warm 
young  grasp  within  his  own  chilly  old  palm.  He  likes 
to  lead  the  boy  and  feel  those  sturdy  young  lingers  twitch 
to  the  excitement  of  what  tales  he  can  tell  or  what  treas- 
ures he  can  show. 

"Now  what  have  we  got  to  show  you  in  our  shelves 
this  evening?  Nothing  much,  we  fear.  Oh,  yes,  we 
have,  though  !  Those  folios  —  we've  rearranged  them 
so  as  to  fill  the  ninth  and  tenth  in  this  tier.  That  was 
your  suggestion,  wasn't  it  ?  I  agree,  you  know,  I  quite 
agree.     It's  an  improvement." 

"Keeps  them  stiff er,"  says  Percival,  head  on  one 
side,  rather  proud. 

"Just  exactly  what  it  does!  Keeps  them  stiffer. 
Lessens  the  strain.  We  ought  to  have  thought  of 
that,  Percival.  We  reproach  ourselves  there,  you 
know." 

There  is  a  tinge  of  the  self-reproach  in  his  voice,  and 
Percival  hastens  with  :  "Of  course  you  would  have  done 


THE  WORLD  AS   SHOWMAN  183 

it  yourself,  as  you  said,  but  you  get  into  your  ways,  don't 
you?" 

"Well,  we  do,"  agrees  Mr.  Amber,  very  comforted. 
"That's  just  what  it  is  —  we  get  into  our  ways." 

At  other  times  when  Percival  comes  to  the  hbrary, 
there  is  no  answer  to  his  knock  on  the  door.  He  turns 
the  handle  very  gently  ;  pokes  in  his  head  very  quietly ; 
peers  all  about  the  apartment ;  cannot  see  Mr.  Amber ; 
enters  very  cautiously ;  and  presently  espies  him  perched 
high  aloft  on  one  of  the  wheeled  book-ladders,  sitting 
cross-legged,  catalogue  on  knee,  pencil  in  hand,  brow 
puckered  in  mental  labour. 

Then  Percival  closes  the  door  behind  him,  so  that  there 
shall  be  scarcely  the  faintest  click,  and  gives  a  tiny 
cough  and  says:    "Very  busy,   Mr.  Amber?" 

"  'M-'m,"  says  Mr.  Amber,  wagging  his  head,  waving 
the  pencil  and  frowning  horribly.     "  'M-'m  !" 

Percival  tiptoes  with  enormous  caution  to  the  other 
ladder;  wheels  it  to  a  shelf  where  he  has  found  enter- 
tainment; selects  his  book;  perches  himself;  and  for 
an  hour  or  more  the  two,  each  on  his  ladder,  the  child 
and  the  man,  the  hssom  young  form  and  the  withered 
old  figure,  sit  high  among  the  books,  entranced  among 
the  worlds  that  books  discover. 

"  'M-'m!"  says  Mr.  Amber  at  intervals,  frantically 
waving. 

"Only  coughed,"  explains  Percival.  "Only  that 
choking,   you   know.     It — " 

"  'M-  'm  !     'M-  'm  ! "  and  they  bury  themselves  again. 

That  is  the  usual  course.  Once  or  twice  there  have 
been  conversations  across  the  room  from  the  tops  of  the 
ladders.  Percival  has  looked  up  from  his  book  to  find 
Mr.  Amber  turned  towards  him  and  regarding  him  with 
eyes  that  do  not  appear  to  see  his  smile  of  greeting. 


i«4  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Mr.  Amber,  is  there  anything  funny  about  me  that 
you  look  at  me  so?" 

Mr.  Amber  will  start  as  though  he  had  been  dreaming. 
"Funny?  Eh?  Why,  no,  Percival;  nothing  funny  at 
all." 

"If  it  is  my  boots,  they  are  quite  clean.  I  gave  them 
twelve  wipes  each,  like  you  told  me." 

"It's  not  your  boots." 

Silence  between  them. 

"Funny  us  two  sitting  up  here  like  this,  like  two  moun- 
tains in  the  sea.     Rather  jolly,  isn't  it?" 

"It  recalls  to  me,"  says  Mr.  Amber,  "another  little 
boy  who  used  to  sit  up  there  just  as  you  sit,  ...  In 
this  dim  light  .  .  .  there  are  ways  you  have,  Per- 
cival .  .  ." 

Silence  again.  Twihght  gathering  in  the  corners  of 
the  vast  room.  A  moth  softly  thudding  the  window- 
pane.  There  is  something  in  the  atmosphere  that  seems 
to  hold  Percival.  At  "Post  Offic"  he  Hkes  the  lamps  to 
be  Ht  when  dusk  draws  down ;  here  there  is  a  feehng  of 
gentleness  about  him,  with  curious  half-thoughts  and 
with  half-familiar  gropings  and  stretchings  of  the  shad- 
ows. "Thinking  without  thinking,  as  if  I  was  in  some 
one  else  who  was  thinking,"  he  has  described  it  to  Aunt 
Maggie. 

"Your  voice,  too,"  says  Mr.  Amber  suddenly. 

Percival  knows  what  is  in  Mr.  Amber's  mind.  "Think- 
ing of  your  young  lordship,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Amber?" 

"He  used  to  sit  there,"  Mr.  Amber  replies.  "In  this 
dim  light  .  .  .  seeing  you   there  ..." 

Silence  again.  Twihght  wreathing  from  the  corners 
across  the  ceiling ;  shadows  grouping  and  moving  in  new 
fantasies ;  soft  thuddings  of  the  moth  as  though  a  shadow 
beat  to  enter. 


THE  WORLD  AS  SHOWMAN  185 

Percival  stretches  a  hand,  and  against  the  window's 
light  perceives  a  shadow  he  has  watched  drift  caress- 
ingly about  his  fingers. 

Mr.  Amber,  Httle  above  a  whisper,  peering  through 
the  gloom :  "Why  do  you  stretch  your  hand  so,  my  lord  ?  " 

"I'm  touching  a  shadow  that's  come  right  up  to  me;" 
and  then  Percival  realises  the  last  words,  and  laughs  and 
says:  "You  called  me  'my  lord!'  —  you  did  really, 
Mr.  Amber  !" 

"God  bless  me!"  says  Mr.  Amber,  shaking  himself 
—  "God  bless  me,  we  are  getting  the  shadows  in  our 
brains.     Come  down  and  watch  me  light  the  lamps." 


Happy,  happy  time  !  Best  of  all  when  the  family  is 
at  the  Old  Manor  and  when  the  friendship  with  RoUo 
can  be  taken  up  where  it  was  left,  to  be  deepened  and 
to  be  discovered  more  than  ever  fruitful  of  delights.  The 
boys  are  older  now.  Childish  games  are  done  with; 
very  serious  talks  (so  they  believe)  take  the  place  of  the 
chatter  and  the  "pretending  "  of  earlier  days :  they  dis- 
cuss affairs,  mostly  arising  from  adventures  in  the  books 
they  read ;  there  has  been  a  general  election,  and  they 
agree  that  the  Liberals  are  awful  rotters ;  there  has  been 
one  of  the  little  wars,  and  they  kindle  together  to  the 
glory  of  British  arms  and  wish  they  might  be  Young 
Buglers  and  be  thanked  by  the  general  before  the  whole 
regiment  like  the  heroes  of  Mr.  Henty's  books. 

Percival  calls  the  tune,  starts  the  discussions,  con- 
structs the  adventures.  Rollo  follows  the  lead,  leaning 
on  the  quicker  mind  just  as  he  rehes  on  the  stronger  arm 
and  the  speedier  foot  when  they  are  on  their  rambles 
together.     It  is  Rollo  who  throws  the  acorn  that  hits 


i86  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

the  stout  farm  boy  driving  a  milk  cart  beneath  them, 
as  they  perch  in  a  tree.  It  is  Percival  who  scrambles 
down  responsive  to  the  insults  of  the  enraged  boy,  and 
takes  a  most  fearful  battering  that  the  stout  boy's  stout 
arms  are  able  to  inflict. 

"I  ought  to  have  fought  him,"  Rollo  says  half-tear- 
fully,  with  shamed  and  shuddering  glances  at  the  bloody 
handkerchief  held  to  the  suffering  nose,  the  lumped 
forehead  and  the  blackened  eye.  "He  said  the  one  that 
hit  him.     It  was  my  shot." 

Percival,  in  terrible  fury,  muffled  from  behind  the 
handkerchief :  ''How  could  you  fight  him  ?  Dash  those 
great  clodhopping  arms  of  his  !  A  mile  long  !  I'll  have 
another  go  at  him,  I  swear  I  will." 

It  is  Rollo  who  cries:  "Percival,  it  will  kill  us!" 
when  the  ram  they  have  annoyed  comes  with  a  fourth 
shattering  crash  against  the  boards  of  the  pigsty  to 
which  they  have  fled  for  safety.  It  is  Percival  who  cries  : 
"Run,  when  he  sees  us!"  whips  over  the  palisade, 
springs  across  the  field,  and  takes  the  tail-end  of  an  ap- 
palhng  batter  as  he  hurls  himself  through  the  far  gate. 

"How  ever  could  you  dare?"  Rollo  asks,  joining  liim 
in  the  road.     "Has  he  hurt  you  frightfully?" 

"How  could  you  have  escaped?"  says  Percival, 
limping.  "He'd  have  got  you  in  that  sty.  I  knew  I 
could  beat  him.  Dash  the  brute,  it  stings  !  There's 
the  kind  of  stick  I  want !     I'll  teach  him  manners  !" 

It  is  Rollo  who  gives  an  appealing  look  at  Percival 
when  Lord  Burdon  starts  them  in  a  race  for  sixpence. 
It  is  Percival  who  whispers  as  they  run  :  "We'll  make  it 
a  dead  heat." 

"It  was  awfully  decent  of  you,  Percival,"  Rollo  ex- 
claims, as  they  go  to  spend  the  prize  at  Mrs.  Minnifie's 
sweet  shop. 


THE  WORLD   AS   SHOWMAN  187 

"Oh,  it's  rotten  beating  one  another  when  people  are 
looking  on,"  Percival  replies.  "I  vote  for  lemonade 
as  well,  don't  you?" 

It  is  the  spirit  between  them  that  had  its  first 
evidence  on  the  day  when  the  visit  was  made  to  Mr. 
Hannaford  to  purchase  the  Httle  black  'orse.  Then 
RoUo  hung  back  while  Percival  jumped  to  ride;  then 
Percival  brought  him  forward,  encouraging  him,  to  taste 
the  fun.  So  now,  as  the  years  sunder  their  natures  more 
sharply,  and  as  affection  more  strongly  bridges  the  gulf, 
the  more  sharply  does  the  one  lead,  the  other  follow; 
the  more  naturally  does  the  one  support,  the  other  rely. 

Everybody  notices  it :  Aunt  Maggie,  who  only  smiles ; 
Lady  Burdon,  who  says:  "Rollo,  Percival's  a  regular 
little  father  to  you,  it  seems  to  me.  Don't  let  him  rule 
you,  you  know.  Remember  what  you  are,  Rollo  mine." 
Even  Egbert  Hunt  notices  it.  Mr.  Hunt  is  still  attached 
to  Rollo 's  person.  Sick  yedaches  trouble  him  less  fre- 
quently; but  his  hatred  of  tyrangs  has  deepened  with 
the  increasing  tenure  of  his  servitude.  He  spends  less 
of  his  wages  on  vegules ;  much  of  it  on  socialistic  Htera- 
ture  of  an  inflammatory  nature ;  but  he  never  forgets 
the  sympathy  of  Percival  in  the  vegule  days,  and  he  is 
strongly  joined  with  all  those  who,  meeting  the  boy, 
have  a  note  stirred  by  his  sunny  nature. 

"Always  does  me  good  to  see  you,"  Mr.  Hunt  says 
one  day.  "Something  about  you.  He'll  never  be  a 
slave  who  works  for  you." 

"Well,  who's  going  to  w^ork  for  me?"  Percival  in- 
quires. 

"The  point !"  says  Mr.  Hunt  with  impressive  gloom. 
"The  very  point."  He  fumbles  in  his  pocket  and  pro- 
duces thumbed  papers,  just  as  he  fumbled  and  produced 
vegules  at  an  earlier  day.     "It's  in  the  lowlier"  —  he 


i88  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

consults  a  paper  —  "in  the  lowlier  strata  that  you  find 
the  men  a  man  can  follow,  but  the  men  that  can't  lead 
owing  to  the  heel  of  the  tyrang.  It's  the  Bloodsuckers 
we  got  to  serve."  He  indicates  the  paper:  "Blood- 
suckers, they  call   'em  here." 

"Silly  rot,"  says  Percival. 

"Ah,  you're  young,"  Mr.  Hunt  returns.  "You're 
young.  You'll  learn  different  when  they  begin  to  sap 
your  blood  for  you.  You're  a  higher  strata  than  me, 
Master  Percival.  Benificent  influence  of  education, 
you've  had.  But  you're  under  the  Bloodsuckers. 
Squeeze  you  ^ut  Hke  an  orindge,  they  will,  and  throw 
yer  away.  Me  one  day,  you  another."  He  indicated 
the  paper  again.  "There's  a  strong  bit  here  called 
'Squeezed  Orindges.'     Makes  yer  boil." 

" I'm  boiling  already,"  says  Percival.  "It's  a  jolly  hot 
day.  If  you  don't  like  being  what  you  are,  I  wonder 
you  don't  be  something  else." 

"No  good,"  Mr.  Hunt  tells  him.  "Out  of  one  ty- 
rang's  heel  and  under  another.  We've  got  to  suffer 
and  endure,  us  orindges,  until  the  day  when  they  are 
swept  away  like  chaff  before  the  wind." 

Percival  is  rather  interested :"  Well,  who's  going  to 
sweep  them?    and  sweep  whom?" 

"Ah!"  says  Mr.  Hunt  darkly.  "Who?  Makes 
yer  boil." 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  worry,  Hunt,"  says  Percival,  in 
the  old  "Have  you  got  one  of  your  poor  sick  yedaches  ?" 
tone.  "I  shouldn't,  really.  I  feel  angry  sometimes, 
but  you've  only  got  to  have  a  game  of  something,  you 
know.  There's  Rollo  !  Come  on  down  and  help  us 
to  build  that  raft  on  Fir-Tree  Pool.  We'll  have  a  jolly 
time.  Rollo  !  Hunt's  going  to  help  us,  so  we  can  get 
that  big  plank  down  now  !     Come  on,  Hunt !" 


THE  WORLD  AS   SHOWMAN  189 

He  bounds  away  towards  Rollo,  and  Mr.  Hunt,  watch- 
ing before  he  starts  to  follow,  says:  "Ah,  pity  there's 
not  more  like  you  !  You  ought  to  ha'  been  one  of  them." 
He  scowls  horribly  in  the  direction  of  Lady  Burdon,  who 
is  waving  to  the  boys  from  the  door.  "One  o'  them, 
you  ought  to  ha'  been.    Makes  yer  boil !" 


CHAPTER    VI 

JAPHRA    AND    IMA    AND    SNOW-WHITE-AND-ROSE-RED 


And  there  were  three  new  friends  who  contributed  to 
this  happy,  happy  time  and  who  came  vitally  to  contrib- 
ute to  later  years.  There  were  Japhra  and  Ima,  who 
lived  in  a  yellow  caravan  that  was  sometimes  attached 
to  that  Maddox's  Monster  Menagerie  and  Royal  Circus 
with  which  Mr.  Hannaford  traded  in  little  'orses ;  and 
there  was  Dora,  whose  mother  was  that  Mrs.  Espart 
of  Abbey  Royal  at  Upabbot  over  the  Ridge  who  —  as 
Miss  Oxford  had  told  Lady  Burdon  —  did  not  send  her 
httle  girl  to  lessons  with  Miss  Purdie  because  of  the 
post-office  little  boy. 

Percival  first  met  Japhra  and  Ima  on  a  day  not  long 
after  the  end  of  Rollo's  first  visit,  when  —  his  playmate 
gone  —  he  was  temporarily  a  little  lonely.  He  came 
upon  them  by  Fir-Tree  Pool,  stepped  through  the  belt 
of  trees  that  surround  the  pool  and  halted  in  much  de- 
light at  the  entrancing  sight  his  eyes  gave  him. 

Here  was  a  yellow  caravan  with  little  curtained  windows, 
a  thing  most  pregnant  of  mysteries  to  eight-years-old. 
A  big  white  horse,  unharnessed  from  the  van,  was  crop- 
ping the  turf.  There  was  an  iron  pot  hanging  above  a 
jolly  fire  of  sticks.  On  the  steps  of  the  van  a  girl  of  about 
Percival's  own  age  sat  knitting.  She  was  olive  of  face, 
with  long,  black  hair ;  her  legs  were  bare  and  they  looked 
very  long,  Percival  thought.     By  the  fire,  astride  of  a 

190 


JAPHRA  AND   IMA  191 

felled  tree  trunk,  was  a  Kttle  man  with  a  very  brown  face 
that  was  marked  like  a  sailor's  with  many  puckered 
little  lines.  He  had  a  tight-lipped  mouth  with  a  short 
pipe  that  seemed  a  natural  part  of  it,  and  he  wore  a  long 
jacket  and  had  a  high  hat  of  some  rough,  brown  fur. 
He  was  reading  a  book ;  and  as  Percival  stood  watching, 
he  put  a  finger  to  mark  his  place  and  looked  up  slowly  as 
though  he  had  known  Percival  was  there  but  wished  to 
read  to  a  certain  point  before  interrupting  himself. 

He  looked  up  and  Percival  noticed  that  his  eyes,  set 
in  that  brown,  puckered  face,  were  uncommonly  bright. 
"Welcome,  little  master,"  said  he.     "All  the  luck!" 

"Hullo!"  said  Percival.  "Excuse  me  staring.  This 
is  funny  to  me,  you  know." 

"Quiet,  though,"  said  the  httle  man,  his  eyes  twin- 
kling;   "and  that's  the  best  thing  in  Hfe." 

Percival  came  up  to  him,  vastly  attracted.  "Do  you 
live  in  that  van?" 

"That's  where  I  live,   httle  master  —  Ima  and  I." 

Percival  stared  at  the  girl  on  the  steps,  who  stared 
back  at  him  and  then  smiled.  "Ima?  That's  a  funny 
name,"  he  said. 

"Maybe  she's  a  funny  girl,"  said  the  Uttle  man, 
twinkHng  more   than   ever. 

Percival  took  it  quite  seriously.  "Well,  her  legs  are 
long,"  he  said  appraisingly. 

"They  can  run,  though,  little  master,"  said  the  girl. 
She  had  a  curiously  soft  voice,  Percival  noticed.  But 
he  was  rather  puzzled  with  it  all  and  remained  serious. 
"Is  your  name  funny,  too?"   he  asked  the  little  man. 

The  Uttle  man's  tight  hps  were  stretched  in  what 
Percival  came  to  know  for  his  most  advanced  sign  of 
amusement.  He  opened  his  hps  very  slightly  when  he 
spoke,  and  the  short  pipe  that  seemed  to  grow  there  did 


192  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

not  appear  at  all  to  incommode  his  speech.  "Why,  try 
it  for  thyself,"  said  the  Httle  man,  —  "Japhra." 

"Well,  I've  not  heard  it  before,  you  know,"  said  Per- 
cival  poHtely.  "You  don't  mind  my  asking  questions, 
do  you?"  he  added.  "This  is  rather  funny  to  me,  you 
know." 

"Why,  I'm  a  questioner  myself,  little  master,"  the 
little  man  assured  him.  "I'm  questioning  always.  I 
go  through  life  seeking  an  answer." 

"What  for?"  asked  Percival. 

"Why,  that's  the  question,  little  master,"  said  the 
little  man.     "What  for?     Who  knows?" 

Percival  regarded  him  with  the  same  puzzled  air  that 
he  sometimes  gave  to  Aunt  Maggie.  "Well,  if  you 
don't  mind,"  he  said,  "what  are  you,  then?" 

Far  from  minding,  Japhra  seemed  to  Kke  it.  Twin- 
kling away:  "Why,  that's  another  question  I  ask  and 
cannot  answer,"  said  he.  "What  is  any  man?  One 
thing  to  one  man  and  one  thing  to  another  —  a  riddle  to 
himself,  little  master.  But  I  can  unriddle  thee  this 
much :  Wintertime  I  am  a  tinker  that  mends  folks' 
pots  and  pans ;  Springtimes  I  am  Punch-and-Judy-man 
that  makes  the  children  laugh;  Summertimes  I  am  a 
fighter  that  fights  in  the  booths.  I  have  been  prize- 
fighter that  fights  with  the  knuckle ;  cattleman  over  the 
sea ;  jockey,  and  wrestler,  and  miner,  and  preacher  once, 
and  questioner  since  I  was  thy  size;  there's  unriddHng 
for  thee." 

"It's  a  good  lot,"  said  Percival  gravely.  "What  are 
you  just  now,  please?" 

"Or  a  bad  lot,"  said  Japhra.  "Who  knows?  —  and 
there's  the  question  again  !  No  escape  from  it."  He 
looked  solemn  for  a  moment  and  then  twinkled  again. 
"Just  now  a  fighter,  little  master.     To-morrow  I  join 


JAPHR.\   AND   IMA  193 

Boss  IVIaddox's  circus  for  the  sirnimer  with  my  boxing 
booth." 

''Boss  Maddox  !"  cried  Percival.  "Why,  Mr.  Stmgo 
goes  with  Aladdox's  circus.     Do  you  know  Mr.  Stingo  ?  " 

"None  better,"  said  Japhra.  "I  am  of  Stingo's 
crowd,  as  we  say.     Dost  thou  ?  " 

"I  know  him  very  well,"  Percival  declared.  "I  know 
his  brother  best.  They  call  me  a  Pocket  Marvel,  you 
know ;  so  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  think  of  that  ?  " 
Why,  I  think  that's  what  thou  art,"  said  Japhra. 

A  rare  one.     There  were  fairies  at  thy  christening, 
little  master." 

"What  for?"  asked  Percival  and  asked  it  so  seriously 
that  Japhra  twinkled  anew  and  rephed :  "Why,  there's 
the  question  again.  What  for?  Why  that  sunny  face 
they  have  given  thee?  and  those  fine  limbs?  and  that 
straight  back  ?  What  for  ?  There's  some  purpose  in  it, 
little  master." 

He  looked  strangely  at  Percival  as  though  behind  his 
tmnkling  he  indeed  questioned  these  matters  and  founds 
as  he  had  said,  a  question  in  all  he  saw.  But  when  he 
saw  how  mystified  he  held  Percival,  he  stopped  his 
searching  look  and  asked:  "Any  more  questions,  Httle 
master?" 

He  had  kept  his  finger  on  the  open  page  of  his  book 
all  this  time;  and  Percival  pointed  and  said:  "Well, 
what  are  you  reading,  if  you  please?"  and  was  told 
"Robinson  Crusoe." 

"Why,  I'm  reading  that!"  cried  Percival  in  much 
delight. 

"Then  thou  art  reading  one  of  the  only  three  books 
a  man  wants,"  said  Japhra.  "There's  'Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress'—" 

"I've  read  that  too  !     In  Mr.  Amber's  Hbrary — " 


194  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"And  there's  the  Bible." 

"And  that  as  well !"  cried  Percival. 

"Why,"  said  Japhra  —  not  twinkling  now,  but  grave 
—  "why,  then,  thou  hast  read  the  beginning  and  end  of 
wisdom.  Crusoe  and  Pilgrim  and  Bible  —  those  are  the 
books  for  a  man.  I  read  them  and  read  them  and  always 
read  them  new.  They  are  the  books  for  a  questioner, 
and  thou  art  that  amain.  And  they  are  the  books  for 
a  fighter,  and  that  is  thy  part.  I  have  unriddled  thee  so 
far,  little  master.  I  know  the  fighting  type.  Mark  me 
when  the  years  come.     A  fighter,  thou." 

He  placed  a  blade  of  grass  in  "Robinson  Crusoe" 
and  put  the  volume  beneath  his  arm.  He  got  up  and 
took  Percival's  small  hand  in  his  horny  fist.  "Come 
thou  and  see  my  van,  little  master,"  said  he.  "We  are 
friends  —  thou  and  I  and  Ima  here."  And  then  he 
twinkled  again.  ' '  And  why  ?  What  brought  thee  whom 
the  fairies  attended  and  that  has  read  the  books  and  is 
the  fighting  type  ?  What  brought  thee  here  ?  Why, 
there's  the  question  again  !" 

It  was  the  beginning  of  Percival's  chiefest  friendship 
of  them  all.  In  the  rare  proper  seasons  that  followed 
one  another  through  this  the  happy,  happy  time,  the 
van  came  more  and  more  frequently  Lethamwards. 
Summertimes  it  was  away  with  Stingo's  crowd  in  Mad- 
dox's  Monster  Menagerie  and  Royal  Circus.  But 
Wintertimes  it  would  come  tinkering,  and  sometimes  re- 
main a  week  or  more  snow-bound,  and  Springtimes  Punch- 
and-Judying  through  the  Burdon  hamlets;  and  these 
were  happy,  happy  times  indeed.  There  was  all  Japhra's 
lore,  all  his  dimly  understood  "questioning"  to  hear; 
and  all  his  stories  of  his  strange  and  varied  life ;  and  all 
his  reading  aloud  from  his  three  books,  who  could  read 
them  and  put  a  meaning  into  them  as  none  other  could. 


JAPHRA  AND   IMA  195 

And  there  was  the  boxing  to  learn,  with  Percival  a  very 
apt  and  eager  pupil  and  Japhra  insistent  that  it  was  a 
proper  game  — ■  the  only  proper  game  for  a  man.  And 
once  every  summer  there  was  the  visit  of  Maddox's 
Monster  Menagerie  and  Royal  Circus  to  Great  Letham, 
where  Percival,  —  introduced  by  Japhra,  sponsored  by 
Stingo,  —  was  made  enormously  welcome  by  rough,  odd 
van  folk  who  were  of  "Stingo's  crowd."  He  learnt  the 
sharp  and  growing  difference  between  Stingo's  crowd  and 
Boss  Maddox's  men.  Boss  Maddox  was  boss  and  of 
increasing  wealth  and  weight :  attracting  showmen  to 
his  following  from  many  parts  of  the  country  and  in- 
corporating them  in  his  business,  but  unable  to  win  the 
allegiance  of  the  Httle  knot  of  independents  who  called 
Stingo  "  Boss,"  and  hating  them  for  it.  Rough,  odd  men 
who  made  an  immense  deal  of  Percival  and  had  rough, 
odd  names :  Old  Four-Eyes,  who  wore  spectacles  and 
had  a  Mermaid  and  a  Mummified  Man ;  Old  One-Eye, 
whose  left  eye  was  gone  and  had  a  Wild  West  Rifle 
Range;  Old  'Ave  One,  who  was  given  to  drink  ("  'Ave 
one,  mate  ?")  and  had  the  Ring  'em  where  Yer  Like  — 
A  Prize  fer  All ;  and  the  rest  of  them.  Percival  never 
mixed  with  the  Maddox  crowd  but  once,  when  he  boxed, 
and  to  the  immense  dehght  of  Japhra  and  all  the  Stingo 
men,  defeated,  a  red-haired,  skinny  youth  of  his  own  age, 
whom  Boss  Maddox  was  introducing  to  the  pubhc  as  the 
Boy  Wonder  Pugilist.  "Looks  like  a  fox  to  me,"  Perci- 
val said  aloud,  when  he  first  saw  the  Boy  Wonder.  The 
Boy  Wonder  heard,  and  the  men  who  stood  about  heard 
and  laughed ;  there  certainly  was  a  foxy  look  about  the 
Juvenile  Wonder's  cunning  face  with  its  red  head.  The 
Wonder  furiously  resented  the  remark  and  the  laughter ; 
expressed  a  desire  to  shut  Percival's  mouth;  succeeded 
in  shutting  one  of  his  eyes,  but  was  certainly  beaten. 


196  THE  HAPPY  V/ARRIOR 

He  became  Percival's  first  enemy  —  and  chance  set 
aside  the  first  enemy  for  further  use. 


II 

Ima,  when  the  van  came  Lethamwards,  was  Percival's 
first  girl  friend,  and  chance  had  use  also  in  store  for  her. 
She  was  a  strange,  quiet,  very  gentle  thing,  but  one  that 
could  run,  as  she  had  told  him,  and  bold  and  active  stuff 
for  any  ramble.     With  odd  ways,  though. 

''Ima,  you  do  look  at  me  an  awful  lot,"  Percival  told 
her  in  the  early  days,  catching  her  large  eyes  fixed  upon 
him. 

*'  Well,  thou  art  not  like  other  boys  I  see,"  she  told  him ; 
and  a  little  while  after  she  asked  him,  "Dost  thou  know 
little  ladies  with  white  skins  hke  thine,  little  master  ?  " 

"I'm  brown  !"  said  Percival  indignantly. 

She  shook  her  head.     "But  Httle  ladies  ?" 

"I  know  one,"  said  Percival.  "White  !  Well,  you'd 
stare  if  you  saw  her,  Ima.  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red, 
I  call  her,"  and  in  his  tone  was  something  akin  to  the 
mingled  admiration  and  awe  with  which  small  school- 
boys speak  of  their  cricket  captain. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then,  "Well,  tell  me, 
little  master,"  she  said. 

It  was  of  Dora  that  he  told  her. 

When  Lady  Burdon  had  returned  that  call  paid  on 
her  by  Mrs.  Espart  from  Abbey  Royal  she  had  been  as 
greatly  captivated  by  Dora  as  she  had  been  taken  by 
Dora's  mother.  She  found  in  Mrs.  Espart  a  curiously 
cold  and  high-bred  air  that  appealed  to  her  —  being  a 
quality  she  was  at  pains  to  cultivate  in  herself  —  and 
appealed  the  more  in  that  it  very  graciously  unbent 
towards  her.     Its  unbending  was   explainable  by   the 


SNOW-WHITE- AND-ROSE-RED  197 

quality  that,  for  her  own  part,  she  presented  to  Mrs. 
Espart  —  that  of  her  rank  and  station. 

Mrs.  Espart  had  been  married  in  her  teens,  brought 
from  school  for  the  purpose,  by  a  mother  whose  whole 
conception  of  duty  in  regard  to  her  daughters  was  wealthy 
marriage,  and  who  had  fastened  upon  it  in  this  case  in 
the  person  of  Mr.  Espart  —  a  nice  Httle  man,  an  indiffer- 
ently bred  Httle  man,  but  a  most  obviously  well-pos- 
sessed little  man.  The  girl  was  hurriedly  fetched  from 
her  finishing  school,  whirled  through  a  headachy  fort- 
night of  corseting  and  costuming,  and  put  in  Mr.  Espart's 
way  and  then  in  his  possession  with  the  docility  of  one 
educated  from  childhood  for  such  a  purpose.  Used  as 
a  woman  who  never  had  reahsed  there  was  a  life  beyond 
the  cloisters  bounded  by  lessons  in  deportment,  in  the 
nice  languages  and  the  nice  arts;  as  a  wife  who  never 
yet  had  been  a  child  but  always  a  young  lady,  Mrs. 
Espart  discovered  that  she  was  mated  with  a  vulgarian, 
Mr.  Espart  that  he  had  married,  as  he  expressed  it,  "a 
frozen  statue."  She  thought  of  him  and  despised  him  as 
the  one;  he  thought  of  her,  feared  her,  and  adored  her 
as  the  other.  The  chill  she  struck  into  his  mind  commu- 
nicated itself  in  some  way  to  his  bones,  and  very  shortly 
after  he  had  bought  Abbey  Royal  —  her  command  being 
that  he  should  nurse  the  local  political  interests,  enrich 
the  Party  from  his  coffers  and  so  win  her  the  social 
status  her  sisters  had  —  he  began  to  shrivel  and  incon- 
tinently died  —  frozen. 

Mrs.  Espart  proceeded  to  bring  up  the  child  born  of 
this  marriage  precisely  as  she  had  herself  been  brought 
up, —  in  narrow  cloisters,  that  is  to  say,  in  dutiful  obe- 
dience and  for  the  ultimate  purpose  of  suitable  marriage. 
She  repeated  in  Dora's  training  the  training  she  had  re- 
ceived from  her  own  mother,  its  object  the  same,  with  this 


198  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

difference  —  that  whereas  in  her  case  that  object  was  a 
wealthy  match,  in  Dora's  —  Mr.  Espart  having  made 
wealth  unnecessary  —  it  was  position.  Time  was  ab- 
surdly young  for  any  plans  when  Mrs.  Espart  first  met 
Lady  Burdon,  but  plans  had  crossed  her  mind  when  she 
drove  out  to  leave  cards  at  the  Manor :  she  had  heard  of 
Rollo.  She  made  Lady  Burdon  very  welcome  when  Lady 
Burdon  came. 

Dora  was  two  years  younger  than  Rollo,  Lady  Bur- 
don found.  When,  on  the  occasion  of  this  visit,  she  was 
brought  to  the  drawing-room  —  a  strikingly  pretty  child 
in  a  curiously  unchildish  way — she  already  showed  marks 
of  the  machinery  that  ordered  her  Hfe.  She  was  curi- 
ously prim,  that  is  to  say,  of  noticeably  trained  deport- 
ment ;  curiously  self-assured  and  yet  not  childishly  frank ; 
curiously  correct  of  speech  and  with  a  dutiful  trick  of 
adding  "Mamma"  to  every  sentence  she  addressed  to  her 
mother. 

She  was  her  mother's  child;  similarly  trained;  simi- 
larly developing.  "A  very  well  brought-up  child,"  as 
Lady  Burdon  afterwards  commented  to  her  husband, 
and  noted  in  her  also  the  strong  promise  of  the  beauty 
that  later  years  were  to  realise.  She  was  to  be  notably 
tall  and  was  already  slim  and  shot-up  for  her  years; 
she  was  to  be  notably  fair  of  complexion  and  showed 
already  a  wonderful  mildness  and  whiteness  of  skin, 
curiously  heightened  by  the  httle  flush  of  colour  that 
warmed  in  a  sharply  defined  spot  on  either  cheek.  Lady 
Burdon  rallied  her  once  during  their  conversation — the 
subject  was  French  lessons,  which  it  appeared  she  found 
"Terribly  puzzling,  Lady  Burdon,  do  I  not.  Mamma?" 
and  her  face  responded  by  a  curious  deepening  of  the 
red  shades,  her  cheeks  and  brow  gaining  a  hue  almost 
of  transparency  by  contrast. 


SNOW-WHITE-AND-ROSE-RED  199 

It  was  that  quality  and  that  characteristic  that  made 
Percival  —  meeting  her  when  she  was  brought  over  to 
tea  with  Rollo  —  call  her,  as  he  told  Ima,  Snow-White- 
and-Rose-Red. 

The  name  was  from  his  fairy  book,  and  to  his  mind 
fitted  exactly  this  fragile  and  well-behaved  and  reserved 
Miss  who  he  thought  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  he 
had  ever  seen.  It  fitted  her  more  surely  yet  when  he 
came  to  know  her  when  she  was  fourteen  and  just  re- 
turned, Rollo  also  having  come  to  the  Manor,  for  her  first 
holidays  from  the  highly  exclusive  school  to  which  she 
was  sent. 

By  then  the  friendship  between  Lady  Burdon  and  Mrs. 
Espart  had  grown  to  closest  intimacy.  They  met, 
and  Dora  and  Rollo  met,  intimately  in  London;  and 
Abbey  Royal  was  rarely  closed  when  Burdon  Old  Manor 
was  opened.  Mrs.  Espart  had  suffered  to  lapse  that 
attitude  towards  the  Kttle  post  office  boy  which  Lady 
Burdon  had  termed  "ridiculous."  She  never  Hked,  and 
certainly  never  encouraged,  Percival,  but  she  accepted 
him  as  undetachable  from  Rollo,  whom  by  now  she  en- 
couraged greatly  in  friendship  with  Dora,  and  it  was  thus 
that  Dora  at  rare  intervals  contributed  to  these  days  of 
the  happy,  happy  time. 

At  fourteen  she  was  actively  advanced  in  her  first 
term  at  the  exclusive  school  by  the  machine  that  was 
shaping  her.  Strikingly  now  she  promised,  as  always 
she  had  hinted,  what  should  be  hers  when  full  maiden- 
hood was  hers.  The  singular  fairness  of  her  complexion 
was  the  grace  that  first  struck  the  observer ;  and  with  it 
was  to  be  noticed  immediately  the  curious  shade  on  either 
cheek  that  flushed  to  a  warm  redness  when  she  was  ani- 
mated, and,  flushing  sharply  within  its  limitations,  sharply 
threw  into  relief  the  transparent  fairness  of  her  skin. 


200  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Her  head,  small  and  most  shapely,  was  poised  with  the 
light  and  perfect  balance  of  a  flower  on  its  stem.  Her 
features  were  small,  proportioned  as  a  sculptor  would 
chisel  the  classic  face  —  having  the  straight  nose,  the 
deHcate  nostrils,  and  the  short  upper  lip  of  high  beauty. 
Her  eyes  were  well-opened,  strangely  dark  for  her  fair 
colouring,  well-lit,  with  the  light  and  shade  and  softness 
of  dew  on  a  dark  pansy  when  the  sun  first  challenges  the 
flowers  at  daybreak.  Her  abundant  hair,  soberly  dressed 
in  a  soft  plait  that  reached  her  waist,  was  of  a  dull  gold 
that  in  some  hghts  went  to  burnished  brass.  She  was 
poised  upon  her  feet  with  the  flower-grace  of  her  head 
upon  her  throat.  She  was  of  such  a  quality  and  an  air 
that  you  might  beUeve  the  very  winds  would  divide 
to  give  her  passage,  afraid  to  touch  and  haply  soil  so 
rare  a  thing. 

Percival  in  these  days  went  beyond  even  his  first  won- 
der at  her.  He  had  never  believed  there  could  be  such 
a  beautiful  thing,  and  at  their  meetings  he  was  very  shy 
—  regarding  her  with  an  admiration  that  was  very  ap- 
parent in  his  manner.  He,  certainly,  if  not  the  winds, 
had  in  her  presence  a  feeling  of  necessity  to  be  gentle 
with  so  rare  and  strange  a  thing.  He  could  class  her  no- 
where except  with  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red ;  and  to 
him  that  was  her  meetest  class  —  belonging  to  a  differ- 
ent race  and  to  be  indulged  as  an  honoured  guest  should 
be ;  permitted  to  have  caprices ;  expected  to  be  strange. 

She  came  occasionally  to  tea  at  the  Old  Manor.  The 
boys  would  take  her  then  for  a  walk  in  the  grounds  — 
sometimes  further  afield.  Percival,  never  free  from  the 
wonder  she  caused  in  him,  always  had  much  concern  for 
her  on  these  occasions.  He  constantly  inquired  if  they 
were  not  going  too  far  for  her ;  he  would  always  propose 
they  should  turn  back  if  they  came  to  a  muddy  lane.     It 


SNOW-WHITE-AND-ROSE-RED  201 

happened  once  that  a  lane  desperate  in  mud  could  not 
be  avoided.  He  showed  her  the  drier  path  against  the 
hedge,  but  this  was  so  narrow  as  to  require  some  balanc- 
ing to  keep  it. 

"You  must  hold  my  hand,"  he  said. 

To  shake  hands  with  her  had  always  been  a  matter  of 
some  diffidence.  Now  he  was  to  support  her  while  she 
picked  her  way.  He  took  her  little  gloved  hand  in  his. 
It  lay  warmly  within  his  grasp;  and  concerned  lest  he 
should  hurt  so  delicate  a  thing,  he  let  it  rest  in  his  palm, 
passing  his  fingers  about  her  wrist  where  there  was  bone 
to  feel. 

''Tell  me  if  I  hurt  you,"  he  said.  ''I'm  trying  not  to 
—  and  not  to  splash"  —  and  he  trod  carefully,  above  his 
boot  soles  in  the  mire. 

She  told  him:  "You're  not,  thank  you.  These  lanes 
are  wretched.    I  hate  them." 

Much  of  her  weight  was  on  him.  There  was  a  per- 
fume about  her  person,  and  it  came  to  liim  pleasantly: 
he  had  never  walked  so  close  to  her  before.  The  soft 
plait  of  her  hair  was  about  her  further  shoulder,  hanging 
down  her  breast.  With  her  free  hand  she  held  her  skirt 
raised  and  closely  against  her  legs  for  fear  of  brambles  in 
the  hedge.  Percival  looked  at  her  daintily-shod  feet, 
picking  their  way,  and  he  gave  a  funny  little  laugh. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  she  asked  him. 

"My  boots  —  and  yours.  You  must  have  funny 
little  feet." 

She  half  withdrew  her  hand. 

"I  think  you  are  the  rudest  boy  I  have  ever  met,"  she 
said. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,"  Percival  declared. 

She  told  him  in  her  precise  way:  "You  are  rude,  al- 
though you  are  nice  in  some  ways.    I  think  I  have  never 


202  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

known  any  one  stare  at  me  so  frightfully  as  you  stare. 
I  have  seen  you  often  staring." 

Percival  gave  for  explanation :  ''If  I  stare,  it's  because 
I've  never  seen  any  one  Hke  you." 

She  gave  the  slightest  toss  of  her  chin. 

He  went  on :  "  Do  you  know  what  I  call  you  ?  I  call 
you  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red." 

He  saw  the  blush  shades  on  her  cheek  very  slightly 
darken.  It  sounded  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  called.  But 
she  said :   "It  sounds  stupid ;  what  is  it  ? " 

"From  a  fairy  tale.     Don't  you  know  it  ?" 

"I  don't  care  about  reading." 

"What  do  you  like  doing  best  of  all ?" 

"I  think  I  hke  going  for  drives  —  and  that  ;  "  she  half 
slipped  and  added,  "I  simply  hate  this." 

"I've  got  you  perfectly  safe,"  Percival  assured  her. 

She  said  nothing  to  that,  either  of  doubt  or  thanks ; 
and  they  finished  the  lane  in  silence.  But  when  dry 
ground  was  reached  and  she  withdrew  her  hand,  she 
thanked  him  prettily.  With  RoUo  —  who  had  no  wonder 
of  her  and  whom  she  saw  more  frequently — she  was  on 
easy  terms;  and  now  the  three  walked  back  to  the  Old 
Manor  more  companionably  than  was  usual  with  them. 
When  Dora  left,  she  surprised  Percival  by  thanking  him 
again;  she  surprised  him  more  by  showing  him  a  little 
mark  on  her  hand  he  had  held  and  playfully  protesting 
his  grasp  had  caused  it.  Thereafter  when  they  met  she 
had  a  smile  for  him. 

He  liked  that. 

She  came  to  be  very  frequently  in  his  mind,  though  why 
he  did  not  know.  Once  he  came  to  Aunt  Maggie  with  a 
dream  he  had  had  of  her.  "The  rummiest  dream,  Aunt 
Maggie.  I  dreamt  I  was  chasing  her,  and  chasing  her, 
and  calling  her :    '  Snow- White  !     Snow- White  !    Rose- 


SNOW-WHITE-AND-ROSE-RED  203 

Red  !  Rose-Red  ! '  and  every  time  I  nearly  caught  her 
Rollo  came  up  and  caught  hold  of  me,  and  away  she  went. 
And  fancy  !     I  fought  Rollo  !     Aren't  dreams  absurd  ?  " 

Aunt  Maggie  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead.  "Was  that 
the  end,  dear?" 

"Why,  the  end  was  more  absurd  than  ever.  Although 
I  tried,  I  couldn't  hit  Rollo  —  simply  couldn't.  He  hurt 
me,  but  I  couldn't  do  anything,  and  he  threw  me  down 
and  went  off  with  Dora.  Doesn't  it  show  how  ridiculous 
dreams  are  ?  Fancy  dear  old  Rollo  being  stronger  than 
me  !     Is  your  head  hurting,  Aunt  Maggie  ?" 

"Just  a  shoot  of  pain  —  it's  gone  now." 

While  he  described  his  dream,  and  while  she  pictured 
it,  one  of  those  flutterings  had  run  up  violently  in  her 
brain.  It  passed,  but  left  its  influence.  "Absurd!" 
she  agreed.     "If  ever  you  did  quarrel  with  him  — " 

Percival  laughed.     "I  never  could,  in  any  case." 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  him,  Percival  ?" 

Rollo  was  returning  to  London  that  day.  "I  simply 
hate  his  going  away,"  Percival  said.  "I  wish  to  good- 
ness he  lived  here  always.     He  wishes  it,  too." 


CHAPTER  VII 

BURDON  HOUSE  LEASED:  THE  OLD  MANOR  OCCUPIED 


It  happened  that  within  a  very  short  time  of  that  wish 
it  was  granted.  Burdon  House  in  Mount  Street  was  let ; 
Burdon  Old  Manor  was  permanently  occupied. 

This  began  in  a  visit  that  Lady  Burdon,  very  decidedly 
out  of  temper,  paid  to  Mr.  Pemberton  at  the  office 
in  Bedford  Row.  Relations  between  Lady  Burdon  and 
the  little  old  lawyer  had  radically  altered  since  that 
occasion  of  their  first  meeting  at  Miller's  Field.  Mr. 
Pemberton,  who  in  these  years  had  relinquished  to  his 
son  all  the  business  save  the  cherished  Burdon  affairs, 
had  long  been  aware  that  the  misgivings  which  had 
clouded  his  first  happy  impression  of  Lady  Burdon  had 
been  the  juster  estimate  of  her  character.  He  had  per- 
ceived the  dominance  she  exercised  over  her  indulgent 
husband ;  he  had  accepted,  after  what  protest  he  dared, 
that  the  management  of  the  estate  was  in  her  hands. 
He  had  foreseen  the  fruits  of  the  wilfulness  of  a  woman 
thrown  out  of  balance  by  the  sudden  acquisition  of  place 
and  possessions;  it  was  because  these  fruits  were  now 
being  plucked  that  he  preferred  to  keep  the  Burdon 
affairs  in  his  own  hands.  He  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  handing  over  to  his  son  this  honoured  trust  in  shape 
that  would  cause  a  Hfting  of  the  eyebrows:  "Father, 
I've  been  going  through   the  Burdon  papers.     I  say, 

204 


BURDON  HOUSE  LEASED  205 

they  seem  in  a  precious  bad  way  ...  I  don't  under- 
stand. ..." 

He  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  that. 

On  this  day  when  Lady  Burdon  came  angrily  —  and 
defiantly  —  to  Bedford  Row,  the  positiv^n  was  raised 
very  acutely  between  them. 

"I  know  —  I  know,"  Mr.  Pemberton  was  saying. 
"But,  Lady  Burdon,  you  must  perceive  the  possibihty 
—  nay,  in  the  -circumstances,  the  extreme  probabiHty  — • 
that  though  Lord  Burdon  countenances  in  the  smallest 
particular  all  you  find  it  necessary  to  spend  —  and  on  the 
property  not  to  spend  —  he  yet  may  not  appreciate  the 
state  of  affairs  —  the  imperative  necessity  that  a  halt 
be  called.  I  have  written  to  him  frequently.  The  re- 
plies come  from  you." 

She  parted  her  lips  to  speak,  but  he  had  already  had 
sufficient  taste  of  her  mood  to  make  liim  hasten  with : 
"I  know.  I  know.  Lord  Burdon  has  told  us  both  that 
he  hates  business  and  that  he  likes  to  encourage  you  in 
the  pleasure  you  find  in  it.  That  is  admitted.  Lady 
Burdon.  We  have  no  quarrel  there.  My  point  is  — 
how  far  is  Lord  Burdon  to  be  suffered  to  indulge  his 
dislike  ?  how  long  is  he  to  be  kept  in  ignorance  ?  I 
think  no  longer.  That  is  why  I  purpose  making  a  call 
on  him.  I  purpose  it,  again,  because  I  believe  Lord 
Burden's  influence  —  when  he  understands  —  may  join 
with  mine  to  move  you,  where  mine  alone  causes  you 
annoyance." 

He  indicated  the  papers  that  littered  the  table.  "You 
see  the  position.  I  tell  you  again  —  I  tell  you  with  all 
the  seriousness  of  wliich  I  am  capable  —  that  the  crash  is 
as  near  to  you  as  I  am  near  to  you  sitting  here.  I  tell 
you  that  it  is  not  to  be  averted  unless  for  a  period  — 
a  mere   few   years  —  Burdon   House   is   given   up.     It 


2o6  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

will  let  immediately  on  a  short  lease.  There,  alone, 
will  be  more  than  relief  —  assistance.  It  will  save  you 
much  that  you  now  find  necessary  —  there  is  the  relief 
of  the  whole  situation." 

She  broke  out:  "It  would  never  have  come  to  this 
but  for  the  cost  of  this  irrigation  scheme  on  the  Burdon 
property.  That  is  your  doing  —  yours  and  Mr.  Max- 
well's. I  tell  you  again  I  was  amazed  —  amazed  when 
I  heard  of  it." 

"And  I  have  reminded  you,  Lady  Burdon,  that  when 
I  approached  you  in  the  matter  you  desired  not  to  be 
troubled  with  it.  I  had  often  and  often  urged  it  upon 
you.  This  time  you  said  it  was  to  be  left  entirely  to  our 
discretion  —  Maxwell's  and  mine." 

"I  shall  repudiate  the  contract.  The  work  is  not 
begun.     You  can  get  out  of  it  as  best  you  can." 

He  said  very  quietly,  "That  is  open  to  you — of 
course."  He  paused  and  she  did  not  speak,  and  he 
went  on.  "You  would  have  no  case,  I  think.  The 
authority  is  too  clear.  But  I  do  not  mind  saying  I 
would  try  to  get  out  of  the  contract  or  — .  Our  firm 
could  not  be  involved  in  a  lawsuit  against  the  house  we 
have  served  these  generations."  He  dropped  his  voice 
and  said  more  to  himself  than  to  her  :  "No  —  no.  Never 
that!"  He  looked  up  at  her  and  assumed  a  cheerful 
note  :  "You  have  to  think  of  your  son,  you  know,  Lady 
Burdon.  What  is  he  to  come  into  ?  This  irrigation 
scheme  will  be  the  making  of  the  property  —  the  land 
cries  for  it.  If  you  can  cut  off  the  Burdon  House  estab- 
lishment for  a  few  years,  young  IMr.  Rollo  will  have 
reason  to  bless  you  when  in  process  of  time  he  assumes 
the  title.     If  you  decide  — " 

She  rose  abruptly  :  "I  must  be  going." 

Mr.  Pemberton  hobbled  after  her  down  the  stairs  to 


BURDON   HOUSE   LEASED  207 

attend  her  to  her  carriage.  A  bitter  wind  was  blowing. 
The  coachman  was  walking  the  horses  up  and  down. 
The  footman  who  waited  in  the  doorway,  rugs  on  arm, 
ran  into  the  street  and  beckoned  to  him.  Lady  Burden 
watched  the  carriage,  tapping  her  foot  on  the  ground 
and  frowning  impatiently.  A  large  piece  of  pink  paper 
came  blowing  down  the  pavement,  somersaulting  along 
in  a  ridiculous  fashion  —  heels  over  head,  heels  over 
head,  grotesquely  like  a  performing  tumbler. 

"Cold!"  said  Mr.  Pemberton,  briskly,  rubbing  his 
hands  together.     "Very  cold  !" 

She  made  no  reply.  She  was  much  out  of  temper. 
She  was  considerably  beset.  She  was  stiffening  with  an 
angry  determination  against  abandoning  her  life  in  town. 
5he  was  freshly  aroused  against  Mr.  Pemberton  for  his 
devoted  loyalty  to  her  husband's  house  —  he  had  stung 
her  by  the  manner  of  his  acceptance  of  her  threat  to 
repudiate  the  contract;  and  by  his  reference  to  Rollo 
—  he  had  hit  her  there. 

The  tumbling  paper  —  a  newspaper  contents  bill  she 
could  see — flung  itself  flat  a  few  yards  from  them,  throw- 
ing out  its  upper  corners  as  it  came  to  rest,  for  all  the 
world  like  an  exhausted  tumbler  throwing  out  his  arms. 
The  carriage  drew  up. 

With  a  foot  on  the  step :  "You  need  not  call  on  Lord 
Burdon  till  I  have  written  to  you  —  to  arrange  a  date," 
she  said. 

Mr.  Pemberton  replied :  "  I  certainly  will  not.  I 
will  await  your  letter,  Lady  Burdon." 

She  settled  herself  in  her  seat,  drawing  her  furs  about 
her.  He  was  certainly  a  doddering  old  figure  as  he  stood 
there  —  shrunken  in  the  face,  bent  in  the  body,  his  few 
white  hairs  tumbled  in  the  wind. 

"Your  house  is  very  dear  to  me,  Lady  Burdon,"  he 


2o8  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

went  on.  "You  must  believe  I  act  only  in  your  best  in- 
terests —  in  what  I  believe  to  be  —  " 

She  nodded  to  the  footman,  turned  towards  her  from 
the  box,  and  the  carriage  began  to  move.  The  tumbler 
contents  bill  leapt  up  with  an  absurd  scurry,  somer- 
saulted down  to  them,andfiung  itself  flat  with  a  ridiculous 
air  of  exhaustion. 

"Tragedy  in  the  House  of  Lords,"  she  read  idly,  and 
drove  away. 

n 

Lady  Burdon  drove  straight  home.  She  arrived  ^o 
be  apprised  she  was  concerned  in  the  "Tragedy  in  the 
House  of  Lords"  that  the  tumbler  bill  had  brought 
somersaulting  down  the  street.  As  the  carriage  drew 
up,  a  maid  hurried  down  the  steps  and  gave  her  the  news : 
"His  lordship"  —  the  girl  w^as  scared  and  breathless 
—  "His  lordship,  my  lady  —  taken  ill  in  the  House  of 
Lords  —  fell  out  of  his  seat  in  a  faint  —  brought  him 
home  in  Lord  Colwyn's  carriage — carried  him  up-stairs, 
my  lady  —  fainted  or  —  a  doctor  is  with  him,  my  lady." 

Lady  Burdon  wrestled  with  the  confused  sentences, 
staring  at  the  girl,  not  moving.     "Fainted  or — " 

She  threw  back  the  rug  from  about  her  lap  and  sprang 
from  the  carriage.  A  newsboy  rushing  down  the  street 
almost  ran  into  her,  and  she  had  to  stand  aside  to  give 
him  passage.  Her  eye  caught  the  pink  bill  fluttering 
against  him  where  he  held  it :  "Tragedy  in  the  House  of 
Lords." 

God  !  The  tragedy  was  here.  She  ran  swiftly  up  the 
steps  and  up  the  stairs.  At  the  door  of  Lord  Burdon's 
room  terror  leapt  at  her  Uke  a  live  thing  so  that  she 
staggered  back  a  step  and  could  not  turn  the  handle. 


BURDON   HOUSE  LEASED  209 

"Fainted  or  —  ?"  She  caught  her  hand  to  her  bosom, 
her  poor  heart  beat  so.  She  had  a  vision  of  him  dead, 
being  carried  up  the  steps.  There  flashed  with  it  a 
vision  that  showed  him  tired  after  lunch  and  her  saying  : 
*'If  you  knew  how  elegant  you  look,  lounging  there! 
You  ought  to  go  to  the  House.  You  never  go.  You 
can  sleep  there  ;"   and  he  saying,  "Right-o,  old  girl." 

Sleep  there?  Had  she  driven  him  to  die  there? 
Fainted  or  —  ?  " 

She  entered  the  room.  A  man  wearing  a  frock-coat 
stood  by  the  dressing-table.  She  stared,  and  stared 
beyond  him  to  the  bed.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat 
and  strangled  out  the  word  "Maurice!"  The  man 
turned  to  her  and  began  to  speak.  She  ran  past  him  and 
flung  herself  beside  the  bed  and  took  Lord  Burdon's 
hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  face.  She  burst  into  a  ter- 
rible sobbing,  raining  tears  upon  the  hand  she  held. 
From  the  threshold  she  had  seen  the  eyes  open,  the 
faint  twist  of  a  smile  of  greeting  upon  the  white,  pained 
face. 

AHve  !  That  was  sufficient !  For  the  moment,  in 
the  first  agony  of  her  distress,  she  required  nothing  more. 
Between  the  recovery  from  her  first  shock  at  the  news, 
and  the  terror  that  had  held  her  back  when  she  reached 
his  door,  remorse,  like  bellows  at  the  forge,  quicked  her 
every  memory  of  him  to  burning  irons  within  her.  Hap- 
pen what  might,  she  was  to  be  suffered  to  slake  their 
torture. 

She  felt  the  hand  she  held  move  in  her  grasp.  It 
was  his  signal  of  response  to  her  sympathy.  He  said 
very  weakly,  in  an  attempt  at  the  old  tone :  "Made  an 
—  awful  ass  —  of  —  myself,  old  —  girl."  He  groaned 
and  breathed  :    "0  God  !     Pain  —  pain  ! " 

She   would   not   speak   to   the   doctor.     She   desired 


2IO  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

nothing  but  to  be  left  there  holding  that  hand,  feeling 
it  move  for  her  and  pressing  it  against  her  face  that  was 
buried  upon  it  when  it  moved.  She  desired  to  be  told 
nothing,  to  do  nothing.  This  was  between  him  and  her 
— let  them  be  left  to  it  while  yet  they  could  be  left !  A 
procession  of  pictures  was  marching  through  her  mind. 
In  each  she  saw  herself  in  a  scene  of  her  neglect  of  him 
or  her  impatience  with  him.  She  had  the  feeling  that 
while  she  might  hold  that  hand  and  feel  it  move,  each 
picture  would  pass  —  atoned  for,  forgiven,  erased. 
This  was  between  him  and  her  —  let  them  be  left  to  it 
while  yet  they  could  be  left ! 

Movements,  the  opening  and  closing  of  the  door, 
whispering  voices,  came  to  her.  Some  one  touched  her. 
She  shook  herself  at  the  touch  and  crouched  lower. 
This  was  between  him  and  her  !  —  for  pity's  sake  !  — - 
if  you  have  pity,  let  us  be  left  to  it  while  yet  we  can  be 
left! 

The  movements  continued.  They  seemed  to  be  clos- 
ing about  her  —  impatiently  waiting  for  her.  They 
began  to  force  themselves  upon  her  attention  so  that  her 
mind  must  leave  its  pictures  and  distinguish  them.  She 
crouched  lower  ...  if  you  have  pity  !  She  heard  stiff 
rustlings  and  fancied  a  nurse  was  in  the  room.  She  heard 
a  heavier  step  and  presently  felt  a  touch  that  seemed  to 
command  obedience. 

She  raised  her  head  —  A  nurse,  the  man  she  had  first 
seen,  another  man  —  older.  He  pointed  at  the  figure 
on  the  bed  and  motioned  with  his  head  towards  the  door. 
Maurice  seemed  to  sleep.  She  rose  with  a  little  shudder- 
ing gasp  and  looked  at  them,  twisting  her  hands  together 
—  if  they  had  pity  !  .  .  .  what  did  they  require  of  her  ? 

The  older  man  was  bending  over  the  bed,  whispering 
with  the  younger.     The  nurse  came  to  her,  smiling  gently, 


BURDON   HOUSE  LEASED  211 

and  nodded  towards  him:  "Sir  Mervyn  Aston.  He 
will  speak  to  you  outside.  Will  you  not  leave  us  just  a 
moment?     Quite  all  right." 

She  remembered  the  name.  It  was  the  specialist 
Maurice  had  sometimes  consulted.  She  had  not  both- 
ered much  about  it :  but  she  remembered  the  name.  Sir 
Mervyn  looked  towards  her  and  moved  across  the  room. 
She  looked  again  at  the  bed.  The  nurse  nodded  brightly. 
She  followed  Sir  Mervyn  to  the  door. 

"Down-stairs,"  he  said,  and  trod  heavily  down  before 
her.  He  was  a  great  man  and  took  the  privilege  of  bad 
manners.  In  the  library  he  turned  to  her:  "Did  you 
send  for  me?"  She  had  not  expected  that.  She  had 
expected  sympathy  —  at  least  information.  She  stared 
at  him,  momentarily  surprised  out  of  her  grief.  His 
face  was  stern ;  she  believed  his  manner  accused  her. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"You  expected  this?" 

Expected  it !     Of  what  could  he  be  thinking  ? 

"I've  told  Lord  Burdon  repeatedly  that  this  life  — 
I've  warned  him  again  and  again  to  get  out  of  it.  Hasn't 
he  told  you?" 

Now  she  knew  that  he  was  accusing  her.  She  never 
had  cared  to  listen  when  Maurice  told  her  he  had  been  to 
Harley  Street.  She  stood  twisting  her  hands  together, 
nervous  before  this  brusque  man. 

"Hasn't  he  told  you?" 

"No." 

He  looked  sharply  at  her.  He  was  a  great  man  and 
had  learned  to  read  between  the  lines  that  his  fashionable 
patients  presented  him.  "A  pity,"  he  said  briefly. 
"This  might  have  been  averted  for  many  years." 

"Tell  me"  —  she  said,  and  could  say  no  more:  "tell 
me—" 


212  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

His  tone  became  a  little  kinder.  "We  must  hope  for 
the  best,  you  know.  There  is  always  that.  I  wil3 
look  in  again  at  midnight.  They  are  making  him  quite 
comfortable  up-stairs." 

He  said  a  little  more  that  she  did  not  catch.  Presently 
she  realised  that  he  had  left  her.  "This  might  have  been 
averted  for  many  years  ! "  She  ran  to  a  bureau  and  fum- 
bled frantically  for  pen  and  paper.  She  was  in  a  sudden 
panic  to  do  one  thing  that  she  believed  would  soften  that 
dreadful  sentence  if  the  worst  came.  She  was  in  a  panic 
to  get  it  done  before  there  might  be  a  sound  from  above 
and  a  horrid  running  down  the  stairs.  She  found  her 
writing  materials.  Pen  in  hand  she  listened,  trembling 
violently.  No  sound  !  As  quickly  as  she  could  write 
she  scrawled  to  Mr.  Pemberton:  "I  have  decided.  We 
are  going  to  Burdon  Old  Manor  at  once.  Make  arrange- 
ments to  let  the  house,  please." 

Whatever  happened  now,  she  had  begun  her  share  of 
the  bargain  she  prayed  to  press  on  death.  If  death 
would  spare  him,  she  would  devote  her  life  to  him  ! 

As  she  was  sealing  the  letter  Rollo  came  in.  He  had 
been  to  a  matinee  with  Mrs.  Espart  and  Dora,  at  home 
for  her  holidays.  Lady  Burdon  gave  a  Httle  motherly 
cry  at  the  sight  of  him  and  took  him  in  her  arms. 

They  went  up-stairs  together. 

The  doctor  had  gone.  The  nurse  told  her  Lord  Bur- 
don was  asleep ;  but  when  she  went  to  her  former  posi- 
tion on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  and  took  his  hand  again, 
he  opened  his  eyes  and  his  eyes  smiled  at  her ;  and  then 
closed;  he  seemed  desperately  weary. 

She  did  not  cry  now.  There  was  this  bargain  to  be 
forced  on  death ;  and,  as  with  the  letter,  so  now  with  her 
promises,  she  was  in  a  panic  to  get  them  done,  believ- 
ing that  if  death  —  God,  as  she  named  it  —  might  know 


BURDON  HOUSE  LEASED  213 

all  she  offered  to  pay,  he  must  accept  the  price  and  hold 
his  hand. 

'    She  was  not  the  first  that  has  believed  death  —  or 
heaven  —  is  open  to  a  deal. 

Through  the  long  evening  she  knelt  there,  RoUo  with 
her.  Thus  and  thus  she  promised  —  thus  and  thus 
would  she  do  —  thus  and  thus  —  thus  and  thus  !  Mostly 
she  bargained,  frantically  reiterating.  At  intervals 
she  would  turn  to  protest  —  protesting  that  her  sin 
was  very  light  for  so  heavy  a  threat.  What  had 
she  done?  She  had  done  no  wrong.  She  had  no  fla- 
grant faults  —  she  was  serenely  good,  as  goodness  is 
judged.  She  was  devout  —  she  was  charitable.  Only 
one  little  failing,  heaven  !  She  had  desired  to  enjoy 
herself,  and  enjoying  herself  had  neglected  him.  But 
he  did  not  care  for  the  things  she  Kked.  Indeed  he  did 
not !  He  was  happiest  when  she  was  happy.  Indeed  he 
was  !  Yet  she  saw  the  error  of  her  way.  If  he  might 
be  spared,  heaven  —  thus  and  thus  —  thus  and  thus  — 
thus  and  thus  ! 

Physical  weariness  overcame  her  as  she  heaped  her 
promises,  leading  her  mind  astray  and  tricking  it  into 
nightmare  dreams  whence  she  would  struggle  with  trem- 
bling limbs.  The  dreams  took  gross  or  strange  forms. 
She  would  be  running  down  the  street  pursued  by  the 
tumbler  contents-bill,  somersaulting  behind.  It  caught 
her  and  fell  flat,  flinging  out  its  armhke  corners,  and  she 
saw  it  was  Maurice.  She  stooped  to  him,  and  it  was  the 
bill  again,  gone  from  her  on  the  wind.  She  pursued  it, 
and  saw  it  take  semblance  of  Maurice,  and  pursued  it 
with  stumbling  feet  and  could  not  catch  it. 

She  struggled  from  these  horrors  and  found  her  mind 
again.  She  was  intensely  cold,  she  found.  Sir  Mervyn 
had   come   and   was   bending  over   her   husband.     Sir 


214  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Mervyn  nodded  to  her  and  sat  down  by  the  bed.  She 
dared  ask  no  questions.  She  crouched  lower  where  she 
knelt.  The  night  went  on  —  Sir  Mervyn  still  there. 
She  prayed  on  —  thus  and  thus  !  thus  and  thus  !  She 
was  tricked  into  the  nightmare  dreams.  She  was  with 
Rollo's  friend,  Percival,  and  running  to  Rollo,  who  seemed 
in  distress.  A  woman  stopped  them.  She  recognised 
in  her  the  girl  who  had  come  with  that  claim  to  be  Lady 
Burdon  years  before.  The  girl  caught  Percival  and  held 
him  and  Percival  held  her.  She  struggled  to  be  free,  for 
Rollo  was  calling  her  wildly.  His  cries  grew  louder, 
louder,  louder,  and  burst  as  a  real  cry  suddenly  upon  her. 

"Mother!     Mother!" 

She  started  up.  Rollo  was  on  his  feet,  bending  tow- 
ards his  father. 

"Lift !    Lift !"  Lord  Burdon  murmured. 

Sir  Mervyn  raised  him.  She  clutched  his  hand.  He 
rallied  upon  the  strength  of  life's  last  pulse  and  flutter, 
and  smiled,  and  murmured,  "Poor  old  girl !" 

Then  she  saw  death  come ;  and  she  turned  and  threw 
her  arms  about  her  son. 


BOOK   FOUR 

BOOK  OF  STORMS  AND  OF  THREATENING  STORM. 
THE  ELEMENT  OF  LOVE 


BOOK  FOUR 

BOOK  OF  STORMS  AND  OF  THREATENING  STORM 
THE  ELEMENT  OF  LOVE 

CHAPTER   I 

PLANS    AND   DREAMS    AND   PROMISES 


Three  women  were  counting  the  years  now.  The 
years  were  rolling  up  —  curtain  by  curtain,  like  mists 
from  a  distant  hillside ;  and  beliind  them  the  ultimate 
prospects  for  which  Lady  Burdon  waited,  Mrs.  Espart 
waited,  and  Aunt  Maggie  waited  began  to  be  revealed. 
Mrs.  Espart  had  conveyed  to  Lady  Burdon  her  ambition 
—  formulated  long  ago  —  with  regard  to  Dora  and  Rollo. 
Lady  Burdon  reckoned  the  union  as  very  desirable  and 
gave  its  consumation  a  first  place  among  her  aspirations 
for  her  Rollo.  Aunt  Maggie  saw  the  hour  of  her  re- 
venge approaching  so  that  its  years  might  now  be  esti- 
mated on  the  fingers  of  one  hand. 

So  near  the  desirable  ends  were  approaching  that  the 
women  began  to  name  dates  for  their  arrival.  Youth, 
with  only  a  few  years  lived  and  so  enormous  an  exper- 
ience gained  in  those  years  (as  youth  beHeves),  cannot 
endure  the  thought  of  planning  ahead  for  a  space  that 
is  a  fair  proportion  of  its  whole  hfetime.  Five  years  is 
a  monstrous,  an  insupportable  period  to  youth  that  has 
lived  but  four  times  five  or  less.  Age,  with  fewer  years 
to  live  than  have  been  lived,  and  with  the  knowledge  of 

217 


2i8  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

how  little  a  decade  has  to  show,  will  plan  for  five  years 
hence  with  nothing  near  so  much  of  sighs  and  groanings 
as  youth  will  suffer  if  it  must  wait  five  months. 

The  women  began  to  name  dates.  Those  very  close 
friends,  Lady  Burdon  and  Mrs.  Espart,  spoke  of  dates 
frequently.  Mrs.  Espart  and  Dora  had  already  ''come 
into  the  family"  as  Mrs.  Espart  smilingly  expressed  it, 
when,  at  Lord  Burdon's  death,  and  on  being  acquainted 
with  her  dear  friend's  intention  to  let  the  Mount  Street 
house  on  a  short  lease  and  retire  to  Burdon  Old  Manor, 
she  had  offered  herself  as  lessee.  The  offer  had  been 
most  gratefully,  most  gladly  accepted.  The  great  town 
house  was  made  over  to  Mrs.  Espart  for  a  seven  years' 
term  and  thus,  in  Mrs.  Espart's phrase,  "remained in  the 
family  " — ready  for  RoUo  and  Dora,  as  the  ladies  plotted. 

And  now  they  were  naming  dates.  "When  Rollo  is 
twenty-four,"  Lady  Burdon  said  to  Mrs.  Espart,  come 
over  from  Abbey  Royal  to  lunch  at  the  Manor  one  day, 
"look,  dear,  he  is  just  on  twenty  now.  You  know  my 
plans.  Next  year  he  is  to  go  to  Cambridge.  His  ill- 
ness has  thrown  him  back.  But  next  year  will  be  time 
enough.  Three  years  at  Cambridge,  then,  and  that  will 
bring  him  almost  to  twenty-three.  Then  I  wish  him  to 
go  abroad  —  to  travel  for  a  year.  That  is  so  good  for  a 
young  man,  I  think.  Then  when  he  comes  back  he  will 
be  ready  to  settle  down  and  he  will  come  back  just  the 
age  for  that  tradition  of  ours  —  celebrating  comings-of- 
age  at  twenty-four  instead  of  twenty-one.  That  would 
be  so  splendid  for  the  wedding,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Splendid!"  Mrs.  Espart  agreed.  "Splendid! 
That  old  Mr.  Amber  of  yours  was  trying  to  tell  me  the 
o.ther  day  how  that  twenty-four  tradition  arose.  But, 
really,  he  mumbles  so  when  he  gets  excited  —  !" 

"Oh,  he's  hopeless,"  Lady  Burdon  agreed.    Her  tone 


PLANS   AND   DREAMS   AND    PROMISES     219 

dismissed  his  name  as  though  she  found  his  hopelessness 
a  little  trying,  and  she  went  back  to  ''Yes,  splendid, 
won't  it  be?  When  I  look  back,  Ella,  everything  has 
gone  wonderfully.  From  the  very  beginning,  you  know 
—  the  very  beginning,  I  planned  a  good  marriage  for 
Rollo.  It  was  so  essential.  To  be  your  Dora  —  well, 
that  makes  it  perfect ;  yes,  perfect !"  —  and  Lady  Bur- 
don  stretched  out  her  hands  and  gave  a  happy  Httle 
sigh  as  though  she  put  her  hands  into  a  happy  future  and 
touched  her  Rollo  there. 

"And  I  for  Dora,"  Mrs.  Espart  said.  "From  the 
very  beginning,  too,  I  arranged  great  matches  for  Dora  in 
my  mind.  That  it  should  be  your  Rollo,"  —  she  gave  a 
Little  laugh  at  her  adaptation  of  the  words  —  "that  it 
should  be  your  Rollo  —  why,  really,  perfect  is  the  word  ! " 

They  were  silent  for  a  space,  enjoying  the  beauty  of 
the  hillside  that  the  thinning  years  were  disclosing. 

"You've  never  said  anything  to  Rollo?"  Mrs.  Espart 
asked. 

"Oh,  no  —  no,  not  directly,  anyway.  It  will  come 
about  naturally,  I  feel  that.  They  are  so  much  together. 
And  in  any  case  Dora  —  Dora  is  so  wonderfully  beautiful, 
Ella.  I  couldn't  conceive  any  man  not  falling  in  love 
with  her.  In  a  year  or  so's  time,  developing  as  she  is  — 
why,  you'll  change  your  mind  perhaps —  when  they're  all 
worshipping  her  !" 

She  laughed,  and  her  laugh  was  very  reassuringly  re- 
turned. "But  it  is  Rollo  she  will  marry,"  Mrs.  Espart 
smiled.  "With  her  it  is  as  you  say  with  him  —  it  will 
come  naturally.  In  any  case  —  well,  she  is  being  brought 
up  as  I  was  brought  up.  She  is  dutiful.  You  find  so 
many  girls  encouraged  in  independence  nowadays. 
Nothing  is  so  harmful  for  a  girl  ultimately,  I  think." 

Lady  Burdon  nodded  her  agreement.     "How  happy 


220  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Rollo  will  be !"  she  said,  and  spoke  with  a  little  sigh  so 
caressingly  maternal  and  with  eyes  so  fondly  beaming 
that  Mrs.  Espart  put  out  a  hand  to  touch  her  and  told 
her,  "I  love  your  devotion  to  Rollo,  Nellie." 

*'He  is  everything  to  me,"  Lady  Burdon  said  softly. 
"Everything !" 

' '  I  know  he  is.  Why,  you  look  different  again  when  you 
speak  of  him  even  !  Do  you  know,  you  were  looking 
wretchedly  ill  when  I  came  this  morning,  I  thought." 

''I  had  slept  badly."  Lady  Burdon  looked  hesitat- 
ingly at  her  friend  as  though  doubtful  of  the  expediency 
of  some  further  words  she  meditated.  Then,  "I  had 
my  nightmare,"  she  said ;  and  at  the  question  framed  on 
Mrs.  Espart's  lips  went  on  impulsively:  "Ella,  I've 
never  told  you  about  my  nightmare.  I  think  I  shall. 
It  worries  me.  Do  you  know,  just  after  we  came  into 
the  title  a  girl  came  to  see  me  and  said  she  was  the  former 
Lord  Burdon's  wife." 

''No!    What  happened?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  of  course  —  nothing  serious.  I  sent 
her  away.  She  said  she  would  bring  proofs ;  but  I  never 
saw  her  again." 

"You  wouldn't,  of  course.  One  of  those  creatures, 
I  suppose,"  and  Mrs.  Espart  curled  her  lip  distastefully 
and  added:  "I  suppose  some  young  men  will  do  those 
things  —  no  doubt  that's  what  it  was ;  but  it's  rather 
disgusting,  isn't  it  ?  And  how  very  horrible  for  you  ! 
But,  Nelhe,  where  does  the  nightmare  come  in?" 

"With  the  girl,"  Lady  Burdon  said  and  gave  a  little 
uneasy  movement  as  though  even  the  recollection  worried 
her.  "  With  the  girl.  I  dream  of  her  whenever  —  that's 
the  odd  thing  —  whenever  something  particular  happens. 
See  her  just  as  I  saw  her  then  and  say  *I  am  Lady  Bur- 
don,' and  she  says  'Oh,  how  can  you  be  Lady  Burdon  ?* 


PLANS   AND   DREAMS   AND   PROMISES     221 

Then  I  get  that  dreadful  nightmare  feeling  —  you  know 
what  it  is  —  and  say  '  I  hold  ! '  and  she  says  '  No,  you  do 
not — Nay,  I  hold  !'  It's  too  silly — but  you  know  what 
nightmares  are.  And  it  only  comes  when  something 
particular  happens — or  rather  is  going  to  happen.  The 
night  before  we  heard  of  old  Lady  Burdon's  death,  that 
was  once.  Then  the  night  before  we  came  down  here  for 
that  stay  when  Rollo  met  his  friend  Percival  and  we 
began  to  come  regularly.  Then  the  night  my  husband 
died."  She  stopped,  smiled  because  Mrs.  Espart  was 
smiHng  at  her  indulgently,  as  one  smiles  at  another's  un- 
reasonable fears,  but  went  on,  "and  now  last  night !" 

Mrs.  Espart  laughed  outright:  "Why,  what  a  hollow 
moan,  Nellie!  — 'and  now  last  night!'  I'd  no  idea 
you  were  such  a  goose.  You've  let  the  silly  thing  get 
on  your  silly  nerves." 

"Only  because  things  have  always  happened  with  it." 

Her  concern,  however  foolish,  was  clearly  so  genuine 
that  Mrs.  Espart  changed  banter  for  sympathetic  re- 
assurance. "Why,  NelHe,  really  you  must  be  more 
sensible  I  Why,  dreaming  it  last  night  proves  how  silly 
it  is.  What's  happened  to-day?  Look,  I'll  tell  you 
what's  happened  to-day,  and  it's  something  to  settle 
your  wretched  girl  and  your  omens  once  and  for  all. 
She  nightmared  you  last  night  and  to-day  we've  settled 
how  happy  we  are  all  going  to  be  with  our  young  folk 
married  !  There  !  Tell  her  that  with  my  compUments 
if  she  ever  comes  again  !" 

Her  air  was  so  brisk  and  stimulating  that  Lady  Bur- 
don  was  made  to  laugh ;  and  her  facts  were  so  convinc- 
ing that  the  laugh  was  followed  by  a  little  sigh  of  happi- 
ness, and  Lady  Burdon  said :  "Why,  Ella,  it's  funny,  isn't 
it,  how  in  this  life  some  things  do  go  just  as  one  wishes, 
for  all  that  people  say  to  the  contrary?" 


2  22  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

That  was  to  be  proved.  Down  at  "Post  Ofiac,"  while 
the  ladies  planned,  a  date  was  also  being  named. 

II 

"But  when?  When?"  Percival  was  saying  to  Aunt 
Maggie.  "I'm  eighteen  —  eighteen,  but  you  still  treat 
me  Uke  a  child.  I  ought  to  be  doing  something.  I'm 
just  growing  up  an  idler  that  every  one  will  soon  be 
despising.  But  when  I  tell  you,  you  ask  me  to  wait 
and  say  I've  no  need  to  be  anxious  and  that  I  shall  be 
glad  I  waited  when  I  know  what  it  is  you  are  planning 
for  me." 

"You  will  be,  Percival,"  Aunt  Maggie  said. 

But  he  made  an  impatient  gesture  and  cried  again : 
"But  when?  When?  That  satisfied  me  when  I  was 
a  boy.  It  doesn't  now.  I'm  not  a  boy  any  longer. 
That's  what  you  don't  seem  to  see." 

That  indeed  he  was  boy  no  more  was  written  very 
clearly  upon  him  as  he  stood  there  demanding  his  fu- 
ture —  not  for  the  first  time  in  these  days.  He  was  past 
his  eighteenth  birthday :  his  bearing  and  his  expression 
graced  him  with  a  maturer  air.  The  mould  and  the 
poise  of  head  and  body  that  as  a  child  had  caused  a 
turning  of  heads  after  him  were  displayed  with  a  tenfold 
greater  attraction  now  that  they  adorned  the  frame  of 
early  manhood.  There  was  about  the  modelling  of  his 
countenance  that  air  of  governance  that  is  the  first  mark 
of  high  breeding.  The  outlines  and  the  finish  of  his 
face  were  extraordinarily  firm,  as  though  deUcate  tools 
had  cut  them  in  firm  wax  that  set  to  marble  as  each  line 
was  done.  The  chin  was  rounded  from  beneath  and 
thrown  forward ;  and  to  that  firm  upward  round  the 
lower  jaw  ran  in  a  fine  oval  from  where  the  small  ears 


PLANS  AND   DREAMS  AND   PROMISES     223 

lay  closely  against  the  head;  deeply  beneath  the  jaw, 
cut  cleanly  back  with  an  uncommon  sweep,  was  set 
the  powerfully  modelled  throat  that  denotes  rare  phys- 
ical strength.  The  eyes  were  widely  opened,  of  a  fine 
grey  —  unusually  large  and  of  a  quaUty  of  light  that 
seemed  to  diffuse  its  rays  over  all  the  brow.  The  fore- 
head was  wide,  with  a  clear,  sound  look.  Outdoor  life 
had  tinted  the  face  with  the  clean  brown  that  only  a 
fine  skin  will  take;  the  hair  was  of  a  tawny  hue  and 
pressed  closely  to  the  scalp.  He  was  of  good  height 
and  he  carried  his  trunk  as  though  it  were  balanced  on 
his  hips  —  thrown  up  from  the  waist  into  a  deep  chest 
beneath  powerful  shoulders.  He  held  his  arms  slightly 
away  from  his  sides  in  the  fashion  of  sailors  and  boxers 
whose  arms  are  quick,  tough  weapons.  After  all  this 
and  of  it  all  was  a  gay,  alert  air,  as  though  he  were  ever 
poised  to  spring  away  at  the  call  of  the  first  adventure 
that  came  whistling  down  the  road.  His  face  was  not 
often  in  repose.  Ardent  life  was  forever  footing  it 
merrily  up  and  down  his  veins,  delighting  in  motion  and 
in  its  strength,  and  his  face  was  the  mirror  of  its  dis- 
coveries. 

Just  now,  voiced  in  his  ''I'm  growing  up  an  idler  that 
every  one  will  soon  be  despising,"  it  was  discovering 
restrictions  that  his  brow  mirrored  darkly.  "It's  not 
fair  to  me.  Aunt  Maggie,"  he  said.  "I  ought  to  be 
doing  something  for  myself.  I  must  be  doing  something 
for  myself.  But  you  put  me  off  like  a  child.  You  tell 
me  to  wait  and  won't  even  tell  me  what  it  is.  You  tell 
me  to  wait  —  when  ?  when  ?  " 

Aunt  Maggie  said  pleadingly:  "Soon,  Percival, 
soon." 

"No,  I've  heard  that  —  I've  heard  that!"  he  cried. 
"I  want  to  know  when." 


224  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

She  named  her  date.  "When  you  are  of  age,  dear. 
When  you  are  twenty-one." 

He  cried:  "Three  years  !  Go  on  like  this  for  three 
years  more  !" 

He  swung  on  his  heel  and  she  watched  him  go  tre- 
mendously down  the  path  and  through  the  gate. 


CHAPTER  II 

FEARS    AND    VISIONS   AND    DISCOVERIES 


Percival  took  the  highroad  with  the  one  desire  to  be 
alone  —  to  walk  far  and  to  walk  fast.  The  prodding  of 
his  mind  that  goaded  him,  "I'm  growing  —  I'm  losing 
time  —  I'm  settHng  into  a  useless  idler  !"  that  tortured 
him  he  was  in  apron-strings  and  likely  to  remain  there, 
produced  a  feverish  desire  to  use  all  his  muscles  till  he 
tired  them.  His  feet  beat  the  time  —  "I  must  do  some- 
thing—  I  must  do  something!"  and  he  swung  them 
savagely  and  at  their  quickest.  It  was  not  sufficient. 
He  was  extraordinarily  fit  and  hard;  the  level  road, 
despite  he  footed  it  at  his  fiercest,  could  scarcely  quicken 
his  breathing.  A  mile  from  "Post  Offic"  he  struck 
off  to  his  right  and  breasted  the  Down,  climbing  its 
steepness  with  an  energy  that  at  last  began  to  moisten 
his  body  and  to  give  him  the  desired  feehng  that  his 
strength  was  being  exercised.  "I  must  do  something  !" 
he  spoke  aloud.  "I  must  —  I  can't  go  on  Kke  this  — 
I  won't !"  and  taxed  his  Hmbs  the  harder.  If  he  must 
feel  the  chains  that  bound  him  in  idleness,  let  him  at 
least  make  mastery  of  his  body  and  rebuke  it  till  it 
wearied. 

At  the  crest  of  Plowman's  Ridge  he  paused  and  drew 
breath  and  turned  his  face  to  the  wind  that  ever  boomed 
along  here  and  that  had  come  to  be  an  old  friend  that 
greeted  his  ears  with  its  jovial,  gusty  Ha  !    Ha  !    Ha  ! 

225 


226  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Far  below  him  he  could  see  "Post  Offic"  with  its  gar- 
den running  to  the  wood.  From  his  distance  it  had  the 
appearance  of  a  toy  house  enclosed  by  a  toy  hedge,  the 
toy  trees  of  the  wood  rigid  and  closely  chpped  like  the 
painted  absurdities  of  a  child's  Noah's  Ark.  As  he 
looked,  a  tiny  figure  came  from  the  house  and  went  a 
pace  or  two  up  the  garden  and  seemed  to  stand  and  stare 
towards  him  up  the  Ridge.  Aunt  Maggie,  he  was  sure, 
and  had  a  sudden  wave  of  tenderness  towards  her,  look- 
ing so  tiny  and  forlorn  down  there.  He  remembered 
with  a  prick  at  heart  that,  even  in  the  heat  of  his  anger 
in  the  parlour  half-an-hour  ago,  he  had  noticed  how 
small  she  looked  as  she  stood  pathetically  before  him, 
gently  replying  to  his  impatience.  He  thought  to  wave 
to  her  with  his  handkerchief,  but  knew  she  could  not  see 
him.  He  remembered  —  and  another  prick  was  there 
—  that  she  had  said,  seeking,  no  doubt,  to  win  a  moment 
from  his  violence,  "Do  you  see  my  eyeglasses,  dear? 
I'm  getting  so  shortsighted,  Percival."  He  flushed  to 
recollect  he  had  disregarded  her  words  and  had  threshed 
ahead  with  his  "It's  not  fair  to  me  —  not  fair  to  me,  keep- 
ing me  here  doing  nothing!"  He  had  been  unkind  — 
he  was  unkind  —  and  she  was  so  small,  so  gentle,  so 
lo\dng,  so  tender  to  his  every  mood. 

But  that  very  thought  of  her  —  how  small  she  wa?, 
how  gentle  —  that  had  begun  to  abate  his  warring  mood, 
returned  him  suddenly  to  its  conflicts.  That  was  just 
it !  —  so  small,  so  gentle,  so  different  from  him  in  every 
way  that  she  could  not  understand  his  situation  and 
could  not  be  reasoned  with.  No  one  understood  !  No 
one  seemed  to  realise  how  he  was  growing,  and  how  blank 
the  future,  and  hence  what  he  was  growing.  They 
all  laughed  at  him  when  he  spoke  of  it. 

They  all  laughed  !    Mr.  Purdie  laughed  —  Mr.  Purdie 


FEARS  AND   VISIONS  AND   DISCOVERIES    227 

* 

had  laughed  and  said,  "Oh,  you're  not  a  man  yet,  Per- 
cival !"  and  had  given  his  absurd,  maddening  chuckle. 

"His  silly,  damned  chuckle!"  cried  Percival  to  old 
friend  wind  at  the  top  of  a  wilder  burst  of  resentment 
against  the  world  in  general  and  for  the  moment  against 
Mr.  Purdie  in  particular, 

RoUo  laughed  —  Rollo  had  laughed  and  declared : 
"Oh,  don't  start  on  that,  Percival !  That'll  be  all  right 
when  the  time  comes." 

"When  the  time  comes  !  Good  lord  !  The  time  has 
come,"  Percival  told  old  friend  wind.  "It's  slipping 
past  every  day.  All  very  well  for  old  Rollo  —  all  cut 
and  dried  for  him.  For  me  !  I'm  to  be  idling  here 
when  he  goes  to  Cambridge,  am  I?  And  idhng  like  a 
great  lout  when  he  comes  back  !" 

Lady  Burdon  laughed  —  they  all  laughed,  thinking 
him  foolish,  not  realising.  Ah,  they  would  laugh  in 
another  way  —  and  rightly  so  —  when  they  did  realise, 
when  they  saw  him  standing  among  them  idle,  useless, 
helpless,  dependent  on  Aunt  Maggie.  They  would  all 
laugh  —  they  would  all  despise  him  then.  Every- 
body. .  .  . 

n 

As  he  came  to  that  thought  —  visioned  some  distorted 
picture  of  himself,  overgrown,  hands  in  pockets  in  the 
village  street,  and  all  his  friends  going  contemptuously 
past  him  —  there  came  a  sudden  change  in  old  friend 
wind  that  for  a  moment  left  him  vacant,  then  somehow 
changed  his  thoughts  anew.  Old  friend  wind,  that  had 
been  buffeting  him  strongly  in  keeping  with  his  turbu- 
lent mood,  dropped,  and  he  was  in  silence ;  then  came  with 
a  different  note  and  bringing  a  scent  he  had  not  appre- 
hended while  it  went  rushing  by.    Nothing  odd  that  he 


228  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

should  be  responsive  to  this  change.  The  wind  on 
Plowman's  Ridge  was  old  friend  wind  to  him,  and  every- 
body who  is  friends  with  the  wind  knows  it  for  the  live 
thing  that  it  is  —  the  teller  of  strange  secrets  whispered 
in  its  breezes,  the  shouter  of  adventures  thundered  in 
its  gales.  Who  lies  awake  can  hear  it  call  ''Where  are 
you?  Oh,  where  are  you?"  —  who  chmbs  the  hill  to 
greet  it,  it  welcomes  "Welcome  —  ho!"  Sometimes, 
to  those  who  are  friends  with  it,  it  comes  lustily  booming 
along  in  high  excitement  ("This  way!  This  way  I 
There's  the  very  devil  this  way!");  sometimes  softly 
and  mysteriously  tiptoeing  along,  finger  on  Hp  ("Listen  ! 
Listen  I  Listen  !  Hush  —  now  here's  a  secret  for 
you!"). 

In  this  guise  it  came  to  him  now  —  dropped  him  down 
from  the  turbulence  of  spirit  to  which  it  had  contributed, 
caught  him  up  and  led  him  away  upon  the  cloudy  paths 
of  the  scent  it  gave  him.  The  fragrance  it  bore  in  this 
its  whispering  mood  stirred,  in  that  quick  and  certain 
manner  that  scents  arouse,  associations  linked  with  such 
a  fragrance.  There  was  in  the  scent  some  hint  of  the 
perfume  that  was  always  about  Dora ;  and  immediately 
he  was  carried  to  thought  of  her.  .  .  . 

She  to  see  him  idler  !  She  to  pass  him  by  contemptu- 
ously !  His  mental  \ision  presented  her  before  him  as 
clearly  as  if  she  were  here  beside  him  on  the  Ridge.  He 
saw  her  perfect  features,  with  their  high,  cold  expression ; 
the  transparent  fairness  of  her  skin ;  that  warm  shade  of 
colour  on  either  cheek  that,  as  though  she  saw  him  watch 
her,  deepened  with  their  strange  attraction  even  as  he 
visioned  her.  He  \'isioned  her  clearly.  He  could  have 
touched  her  had  he  stretched  a  hand.  And  he  was 
caused  —  he  knew  no  reason  for  it  —  a  slight  trembling 
and  a  slight  quickening  of  his  breath. 


FEARS  AND  VISIONS  AND  DISCOVERIES    229 

She  to  see  him  idler  !  .  .  .  In  rebuke  of  such  a  thought 
he  released  his  mind  to  wild  and  undisciplined  flights 
that  showed  himself  the  champion  of  tremendous  feats 
—  of  arms,  of  heroism,  of  physical  prowess  —  perform- 
ing them  beneath  the  benison  of  her  eyes,  returning  from 
them  to  receive  her  smiles.  .  .  . 

For  a  considerable  space  he  stood  lost  among  these 
clouds.  They  had  drifted  upon  him  suddenly.  He 
found  them  delectable.  Then  he  began  to  find  them 
strange  and  puzzling  —  scenes  that  were  meaningless, 
sensations  that  could  not  be  determined.  It  is  to  be 
remembered  of  him  that,  though  he  was  now  advanced 
to  the  period  when  the  sap  is  up  in  youth  and  quicken- 
ing in  his  veins,  he  did  not  pursue  the  Ufe  nor  was  he  of 
the  nature  that  encourages  the  amorous  designs.  A  slug- 
gish habit  of  mind  and  body  is  the  soil  to  nurture  these : 
he  was  alert  and  braced,  eager  and  sound  from  foot  to 
brain  —  a  thing  all  fibre  and  fearless,  whose  only  quest 
was  what  should  give  him  the  challenge  of  movement,  of 
light,  and  ring  back  tough  and  true  when  he  taxed  it. 
No  room  was  here,  then,  for  the  disturbances  that  sex 
throws  up;  and  yet  these  very  quaHties  that  such  dis- 
turbance could  not  undermine  conspired  to  arouse  him 
very  mightily  when  he  should  turn  him  to  enquire  what 
this  disturbance  was,  and  discovering,  should  launch 
himself  upon  it. 

He  was  near  to  the  brink  of  that  launching  now.  Dora 
with  her  rare  beauty  always  had  exercised  upon  him  a 
feeling  different  from  any  he  commonly  knew ;  he  never 
yet  had  troubled  to  suppose  that  it  was  caused  by  any 
emotion  outside  his  normal  life.  She  had  astonished 
him  by  her  grace  of  form  and  feature  on  that  day  when 
he  had  discovered  her  to  be  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red 
of  the  fairy  book.     Thereafter  she  had  remained  to  him 


230  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

a  delicately  beautiful  object  —  set  apart  from  the  ordi- 
nary fashion  of  persons  he  knew ;  not  to  be  treated  quite 
as  he  treated  them;  a  very  dainty  thing,  making  him 
aware  of  the  contrast  that  his  own  sturdy  figure,  strong 
limbs,  brown  face,  and  hard  young  hands  presented. 
As  a  boy  he  had  always  been  caused  a  manner  of  awe  in 
her  presence ;  as  he  grew  older  the  awe  went  back  to  the 
sheer  admiration  that  she  had  caused  in  him  at  their 
first  meeting.  Out  of  her  company,  in  the  long  months 
that  frequently  separated  her  visits,  he  rarely  thought 
of  her ;  though  sometimes  —  and  he  had  no  reason  for 
it  —  he  would  find  her  pretty  figure  in  his  mind  or  in 
his  dreams.  When  he  reencountered  her,  the  admira- 
tion sprang  afresh ;  he  liked  to  watch  her  face,  to  stand 
unnoticed  and  expect,  then  see,  her  cold  smile  part  her 
lips,  or  those  strange  shades  of  colour  deepen  and  glow 
upon  her  cheeks;  he  liked  in  little  unobserved  ways  to 
protect  her  as  he  had  protected  her  that  day  in  the  muddy 
lane ;  it  caused  him  a  strange  rapture  to  have  her  thank 
him  for  any  service. 

in 

These  were  his  relations  to  her  through  the  years.  He 
never  had  thought  to  analyse  them  nor  question  why 
he  so  regarded  her  —  never  till  now.  Now  for  the  first 
time  as  he  stood  on  Plowman's  Ridge  he  mused  among 
the  misty  tangle  of  the  sensations  that  old  friend  wind 
had  brought,  lost  and  astray  among  the  \dsions  pre- 
sented to  his  mind  by  estimate  of  how  Dora  would  con- 
sider his  idle  plight  —  now  for  the  first  time  he  suddenly 
questioned  himself  what  she  was  to  him. 

He  was  all  unused  to  the  sensations  in  which,  by  an 
effort  recalling  himself  from  his  musings,  he  found  him- 


FEARS  AND   VISIONS  AND   DISCOVERIES     231 

self  suffused.  They  were  all  —  that  slight  trembling 
and  that  slight  quickening  of  his  breath  that  possessed 
him  —  foreign  to  his  nature,  and  he  made  a  sharp  move- 
ment as  though  they  were  tangible  and  visible  things 
that  he  would  shake  from  about  him.  Useless  !  —  they 
had  him  wrapped.  .  .  .  Quicker  his  trembhng,  and  his 
breath  quicker.  What  was  she  to  him?  Up  sprang 
the  answer,  answering  with  a  triple  voice  that  demanded 
his  acknowledgment.  Up  sprang  the  answer,  causing 
him  a  physical  thrill  as  though  indeed  there  burst  at  last 
from  within  him  some  essence  that  had  been  too  long 
held  and  now  was  loosed  like  fire  through  his  veins. 
With  a  triple  voice,  clamouring  he  should  recognise  it ! 
What  was  she  to  him  ?  Her  face  and  figure  stood  in  all 
their  beauty  before  his  mental  eye  —  that  was  one  voice 
and  he  trembled  anew  to  hear  it.  What  was  she  to 
him?  Memory  of  a  light  speech  of  Rollo  on  the  pre- 
vious day  came  flaming  to  his  mind:  "And  mother,  I 
believe,  has  a  plot  with  Mrs.  Espart  that  I  shall  marry 
Dora  then  and  settle  down"  —  that  was  a  second  voice 
and  stung  him  so  that  he  knit  his  brow.  What  was  she 
to  him  ?  Of  them  all  —  of  all  who  would  laugh  and  have 
him  in  scorn  when  he  was  taskless  idler  —  bitterest, 
most  intolerably  goading,  that  she  should  hold  him  so  — 
that  was  the  third  voice  and  drew  from  him  a  sharp  in- 
take of  the  breath  as  of  one  that  has  touched  hot  iron. 

What  was  she  to  him  ?  In  triple  voice  he  had  the 
answer,  demanding  his  acknowledgment,  clamouring 
for  his  recognition.  By  a  single  word  he  signed  the 
bond.  None  was  by  to  listen,  and  yet  he  flushed ;  there 
was  none  to  overhear,  and  yet  he  spoke  scarcely  above  a 
whisper.     He  just  breathed  her  name  —  "Dora!" 

An  intense  stillness  came  about  him.  He  stood  en- 
raptured, all  his  senses  thrilled.     Out  of  the  stillness, 


232  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

echo  of  his  whisper,  seemed  to  come  her  name  of  Dora  ! 
Dora  !  Dora  !  floating  about  him  as  petals  from  the 
bloomy  rose.  He  raised  his  face  to  their  caress  and  was 
caught  up  in  sudden  ecstasy  —  believed  he  was  with 
her,  touching  her;  and  saw  and  felt  her  stoop  towards 
him,  bringing  her  perfume  to  him  as  the  may-tree  stoops 
and  sheds  its  fragrance  when  first  at  dawn  the  morning 
breathes  in  spring. 

IV 

So  for  a  space  he  stood  etherealised  —  awed  and  atrem- 
ble;  youth  brought  suddenly  through  the  gates  and 
into  the  courts  of  love  where  the  strong  air  at  every 
tremulous  breath  runs  like  wine  to  the  brain,  to  the  heart 
like  some  quick  essence.  For  a  space  he  stood  so ;  then 
was  aware  that  old  friend  wind  was  up  again  and  drum- 
ming Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  upon  his  ears  as  one  that  mocks. 

What  was  she  to  him  ?  The  answer,  now  he  had  it, 
stirred  to  wilder  tumult  the  feelings  that  had  brought 
him  turbulently  breasting  up  the  Ridge.  He  looked 
again  towards  "Post  Offic,"  toylike  below,  and  had  no 
tender  thought  for  it  —  bitter  vexation  instead,  as  of 
the  captive  who  goes  to  fury  at  the  chains  that  bind 
him. 

That  he  should  submit  to  be  thus  chained,  thus  apron- 
stringed  !  That  Dora  should  laugh  !  That  she  should 
know  him  idler !  Goading  thoughts  —  maddening 
thoughts,  and  he  flung  himself,  bruising  himself,  against 
them  as  the  captive  against  his  prison  walls.  That  she 
should  laugh  !  It  should  not  be  !  It  was  not  to  be 
endured !  He  threw  up  his  head  in  determination's 
action,  his  hands  clenched,  his  body  braced,  resolve 
upon  his  angry  brow. 


FEARS  AND  VISIONS  AND  DISCOVERIES     233 

Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  drummed  old  friend  wind  —  Ha  !  Ha  ! 
Ha! 

He  gave  a  half  cry  and  turned  and  strode  away  along 
the  Ridge,  taking  the  direction  that  led  him  from  home, 
and  exerting  himself  under  new  impulse  of  the  desire  to 
rebuke  his  body  and  haply  ease  his  mind. 


CHAPTER  in 

A  FRIEND  UNCHANGED  —  AND  A  FRIEND  GROWN 


An  hour  at  that  pace  brought  him  above  Great  Letham, 
clustered  below.  He  paused  irresolutely.  From  among 
the  roofs,  as  it  were,  a  crawling  train  emerged.  He 
watched  it  worm  its  way  along  the  eastward  vale,  then 
abruptly  turned  his  back  upon  it  as  upon  a  thing  more 
fortunate  than  he  —  not  bound  down  here,  as  he  was 
bound.  Brooding  upon  the  landscape,  he  suddenly  became 
aware  of  a  thin  wisp  of  smoke  that  pointed  up  like  a 
grey  finger  from  the  valley  beneath  him.  It  mounted  in 
a  steady,  wand-like  line  from  the  belt  of  trees  that  marked 
Fir-Tree  Pool,  and  its  site  and  its  appearance  braced 
him  to  an  alert  attention.  It  had  signalled  him  before. 
Only  one  person  he  had  ever  known  ht  a  fire  down  there  : 
only  one  hand  in  his  experience  contrived  a  flame  which 
gave  quite  that  steady,  grey  finger.  He  remembered 
Japhra  showing  him  how  to  get  the  heart  of  a  fire  con- 
centrated in  a  compact  centre ;  he  remembered  Ima  laugh- 
ing at  the  sprawling  heap,  burning  in  desultory  patches, 
that  had  come  of  his  first  attempt  at  imitation. 

"If  only  it  is  Japhra  !"  he  said  aloud;  and  he  struck 
down  the  Ridge-side  for  a  straight  line  across  country 
to  where  the  smoke  proposed  that  Japhra  might  be. 

More  than  a  year  had  passed  since  last  the  van  had 
visited  the  district.     Even  Stingo,  met  sometimes  over 

23-1 


A  FRIEND   UNCHANGED  235 

at  Mr.  Hannaford's,  could  give  him  no  better  news  of  it 
than  that  Japhra  had  not  taken  the  road  with  Maddox's 
these  two  seasons.  The  disturbed  state  of  mind  that 
now  vexed  Percival  could  be  soothed  in  no  other  way, 
he  suddenly  felt,  than  by  the  restful  atmosphere  that 
Japhra  always  communicated  to  him.  Japhra  would 
not  laugh  at  him.  Japhra  would  understand  how  he 
felt.  Japhra  would  advise  in  that  quiet  way  of  his  that 
made  one  see  things  as  altogether  diflferent  from  the 
appearance  they  seemed  to  present.  If  only  it  were 
Japhra ! 

II 

It  was  Japhra ! 

As  Percival  came  quickly  through  the  trees  that  en- 
closed the  water  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  yellow  van. 
As  he  emerged  he  heard  Japhra's  voice :  "Watch  where 
he  comes  !"  and  he  pulled  up  short  and  cried  deUghtedly  : 
''You  knew  !    You  were  expecting  me  !" 

Clearly  they  had  known  !  Not  surprise,  but  welcome 
all  ready  for  him,  was  in  Japhra's  keen  Httle  eyes  that 
glinted  merrily,  and  on  Ima's  face,  that  was  flushed  be- 
neath its  dusky  skin,  her  hps  parted  expectantly.  Even 
old  Pilgrim,  the  big  white  horse  that  drew  the  van,  had 
its  head  up  from  its  cropping  and  looked  with  stretched 
neck  and  seemed  to  know.  Even  tiny  Toby,  that  was  Dog 
Toby  when  the  Punch  and  Judy  show  was  out,  was  hung 
forward  on  his  short  legs  hke  a  pointer  at  mark,  and  now 
came  bounding  forward  in  a  whirl  of  noisy  joy. 

Japhra  was  astride  of  a  box,  a  piece  of  harness  be- 
tween his  legs,  a  cobbler's  needle  in  his  right  hand,  and 
the  short  pipe  still  the  same  fixture  in  the  comer  of  his 
mouth.  Ima  was  on  one  knee,  about  to  rise  from  the 
fire  whose  smoke  had  signalled. 


236  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"You  knew!  You  were  expecting  me!"  Percival 
cried  again,  and  went  eagerly  to  them  as  they  rose  to 
greet  him,  his  hands  outstretched. 

"Father  knew  thee  before  I  heard  thy  footsteps," 
Ima  told  him.  "The  fire  crackled  at  my  ears  or  I  had 
known." 

She  seemed  to  be  excusing  herself,  as  though  not  to 
have  heard  were  short  of  courtesy ;  and  Japhra,  who  had 
Percival's  hand,  gave  a  twist  of  his  face  as  if  to  bid  him 
see  fun,  and  teased  her  with:  "Thou  didst  doubt, 
though,  Ima,  for  look  how  I  had  to  bid  thee  'watch  where 
he  comes.'" 

Percival  thought  she  would  toss  her  head  and  protest 
indignantly  as  when  he  used  to  tease  her  when  they  had 
trifled  together.  Instead,  her  eyes  steadily  upon  his 
face,  "Nay,  for  I  knew  it  was  he,"  she  replied  simply. 

He  no  more  than  heard  her.  At  a  later  period  he 
found  that  the  words  had  gone  to  the  backwaters  of  his 
mind,  where  trifles  lie  up  to  float  unexpectedly  into  the 
main  stream.  Years  after  he  recalled  distinctly  her 
tone,  her  words,  and  the  look  in  her  eyes  when  she  spoke 
them. 

Now  he  laughed.  "You  two  can  hear  the  world  go 
round,  I  beHeve."  He  turned  to  Japhra :  "But  how  on 
earth  you  could  tell  — " 

"Footsteps  are  voices,  little  master,  when  a  man  has 
lived  in  the  stillness." 

Percival  laughed  again  —  laughed  for  pure  happiness 
to  hear  himself  still  given  that  familiar  title,  and  for  pure 
happiness  to  be  again  with  Japhra's  engaging  ideas. 
"You're  the  same  as  ever,  Japhra  —  the  same  ideas  that 
other  people  don't  have." 

"Ah,  but  'tis  true,"  Japhra  answered  him.  "Footsteps 
have  tongues,  and  cleaner  tongues  than  ever  the  mouth 


A  FRIEND  UNCHANGED  237 

holds.  Look  how  a  man  may  oil  his  voice  to  mask  his 
purpose  —  never  his  feet.  Thine  called  to  me,  how 
eagerly  they  brought  thee." 

"Eagerly!  —  I  should  think  they  did!  You're  just 
the  one  I  want.  I've  not  seen  you  for  a  year  —  more. 
Eagerly  —  oh,  eagerly  !" 

Japhra's  bright  eyes  showed  his  delight.  "And  we 
were  eager,  too.  We  have  spoken  often  of  Httle  master, 
eh,  Ima?  Not  right  to  call  him  that  now,  though. 
Scarcely  reckoned  to  see  him  so  grown.  Why,  thou'rt  a 
full  man,  Httle  master  —  there  slips  the  name  again!" 

He  twinkled  appreciatively  at  Percival's  protest  that 
to  no  other  name  would  he  an=wer,  and  he  went  on : 
"A  full  man.  Ten  stone  in  the  chair,  I  would  wager  to 
it.     What  of  the  boxing  ?  " 

"Pretty  good,  Japhra.  The  gloves  you  gave  me  are 
worn,  I  can  tell  you." 

"That's  well.  Never  lose  the  boxing.  It  is  the  man's 
game.  Ay,  thou  hast  the  boxer's  build,  ripe  on  thee  now 
as  I  knew  would  be  when  I  saw  it  in  thee  as  a  boy.  The 
man's  game  —  never  lose  it." 

"I'm  keener  than  ever  on  it,"  Percival  told  him.  " I'm 
glad  you  think  I've  grown.  I've  got  a  punch  in  my  left 
hand,  I  beHeve."  His  spirits  were  run  high  from  his 
former  despondency,  and  he  hit  with  his  left  and  sparkled 
to  see  Japhra  nod  approvingly  and  to  hear  him :  "Ay, 
the  look  of  a  punch  there." 

"Yes,  I've  grown,"  he  said.  "You've  not  changed, 
Japhra  —  not  a  scrap." 

Japhra  nodded  his  head  towards  the  fir  trees.  "Nor 
are  the  old  limbs  yonder.  They  stay  so  till  the  sap  dries, 
then  drop.  Nary  change.  Only  the  young  shoots 
change.     What  of  Ima?" 

She  had  turned  away  while  they  talked.     She  was  back 


238  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

at  the  fire,  and  Percival  turned  towards  where  she  stood, 
about  to  lift  from  its  hook  the  cooking  pot  that  hung 
from  the  tripod  of  iron  rods.  As  he  looked,  she  swung  it 
with  an  easy  action  to  the  grass.  The  pot  was  heavy ; 
she  stooped  from  the  waist,  lifted  and  swung  it  to  the 
grass  with  a  graceful  action  that  belonged  to  her  supple 
form,  and,  as  the  steam  came  pouring  up  and  was  taken  by 
a  puff  of  breeze  to  her  face,  went  back  a  step  and  looked 
down  at  her  cooking  from  beneath  her  left  forearm,  bare 
to  the  elbow,  raised  to  shield  her  eyes. 

ni 

That  was  Percival's  view  of  her.  She  had  put  up  her 
hair,  he  noticed,  since  last  he  saw  her.  It  was  dressed  low 
on  the  nape  of  her  neck ;  evening's  last  gleam  delighted  in 
its  glossy  blackness  against  her  olive  skin.  Beneath  the 
arm  across  her  face  he  saw  the  long  lashes  of  her  eyelids 
almost  on  her  cheeks,  as  she  stood  looking  downwards. 
Her  mouth  was  long,  the  lips,  blending  in  a  dark  red  with 
her  brown  colouring,  lying  pleasantly  together  in  the  ex- 
pression that  partners  the  level  eye  and  the  comfortable 
mind.  She  was  full  as  tall  as  Percival  —  very  sUm  in  the 
build  and  long  in  the  waist  that  was  moulded  naturally 
from  her  hips  to  spread  and  cup  her  bosom,  and  therefore 
taller  to  the  eye.  She  wore  a  blouse  of  dark  red  cloth ; 
her  skirt  was  of  blue,  hung  short  of  her  ankles,  and  press- 
ing her  thighs  disclosed  how  alert  and  braced  she  stood. 
She  wore  no  shoes  nor  stockings,  and  her  feet,  slender  and 
long,  appeared  no  more  than  to  rest  upon  the  short  grass 
that  framed  them  softly. 

"Whatof  Ima?" 

"Ima?  —  Ima  has  grown,  though,"  Percival  said. 
"Why,  she's  simply  sprung  up  !" 


A  FRIEND   UNCHANGED  239 

"Ay,  grown,"  Japhra  agreed.  "  Grown  fair,"  he  added, 
watching  her. 

Percival  said,  "Yes,  she  is  pretty."  The  vision  of 
Dora's  high  fairness  came  to  his  mind,  challenged  and 
rebuked  his  favour  of  another  of  her  sex,  and  returned 
him  swiftly  to  the  stress  that  had  brought  him  down  here 
for  comfort  and  that  the  first  reencounter  with  Japhra 
had  caused  to  be  overshadowed.  His  eyes  lost  their 
brightness.  He  remained  looking  dully  at  Ima,  not 
seeing  her ;  and  presently  started  and  flushed  to  realise 
that  he  was  hearing  a  repeated  question  from  Japhra. 

"What  ails,  master?" 

"Ails?  I  heard  you  the  first  time,  Japhra.  I  was 
thinking.     I'm  troubled  —  sick.     That's  what  ails." 

His  face  flushed  with  the  same  cloudy  redness  that  the 
beat  of  rising  tears  drives  into  the  faces  of  children.  On 
the  Ridge  he  had  put  against  his  trouble  the  stiffness  that 
was  of  the  bone  of  Burdon  character.  Down  here  was 
sympathy  —  and  he  was  very  young ;  it  sapped  the 
stubbornness. 

"That's  what  I'm  here  for,"  he  said  thickly.  "To 
tell  you,  Japhra." 

Japhra  had  a  keen  look  to  meet  the  misty  countenance 
that  was  turned  to  him. 

"Food  first,  then,"  he  said,  and  gave  a  twinkle  and  a 
sniff  at  the  savour  from  Ima's  cooking  that  made  Percival 
smile  in  response.  "Naught  Hke  a  meal  to  take  the  edge 
off  trouble.  There'd  be  few  quarrels  in  the  world  if  we  all 
had  full  bellies  always." 

"Well,  food  first,  then,"  Percival  agreed,  making  an 
effort;  and  he  raised  his  voice:  "What's  Ima  got  for 
us?" 

She  turned  at  the  sound  of  her  name  and  smiled  to- 
wards him,  and  the  smile  caused  beauty  to  alight  upon 


240  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

her  face  as  a  dove  with  a  flashing  of  soft  wings  comes  to  a 
bough.  He  saw  it.  Her  beauty  abode  in  her  mild 
mouth  and  in  her  seemly  eyes.  Her  parted  lips  discov- 
ered it  to  step  upon  her  face ;  her  raised  eyes  released  it, 
starry  as  the  stars  that  star  the  forest  pool,  to  star  her 
countenance. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ima's  lessons 

She  had  odd  ways,  Percival  found  —  oddly  attractive ; 
sometimes  oddly  disconcerting.  She  did  not  at  first  con- 
tribute to  the  conversation  while  they  ate.  She  was  very 
quiet;  and  that,  and  the  way  in  which,  as  he  noticed, 
she  kept  her  eyes  upon  him,  was  in  itself  odd.  Dusk  was 
veiling  the  camp  as  they  took  the  stew  she  had  prepared. 
They  had  the  meal  on  the  grass  near  the  van,  and  Percival, 
not  eating  with  great  ease  in  the  squatting  pose,  noticed 
how  erect  she  sat,  as  though  her  back  were  invisibly  sup- 
ported —  her  plate  on  her  lap,  the  soles  of  her  bare  feet 
together. 

He  deferred  his  trouble,  as  Japhra  had  proposed,  till 
the  meal  should  be  done.  He  was  interested  to  know 
where  the  van  had  been  all  these  months ;  and  when  he 
questioned  Japhra,  "We  have  had  the  solitary  desires, 
Ima  and  I,"  Japhra  told  him.  "The  sohtary  desires, 
master,  whiles  thou  hast  been  growing.  A  sudden  weary- 
ing of  Maddox's  and  all  the  noisy  ones.  North  to  York- 
shire, we  have  been ;  west  to  Bristol's  border ;  deeper 
west  to  Cornwall.  The  road  has  had  the  spell  on  us  — 
calling  from  every  bend  and  ever  keeping  a  bend  ahead, as 
the  road  will  to  those  who  are  of  it.  Summers  we  have 
passed  the  circus  on  its  tour  and  laid  a  night  with  old 
Stingo  and  then  away,  urgent  to  move  quicker  and 
lonelier.     Trouble  has  worsened  in  the  circus  crowd." 

"What,  between  Stingo's  men  and  Boss  Maddox's?" 

241 


242  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Ay,"  said  Japhra.  "Boss  Maddox  is  the  biggest 
showman  in  the  west  these  days.  He  rents  the  pitches 
at  all  the  fairs  before  the  season  begins ;  and  the  Stingo 
crowd,  who  must  take  what  he  gives,  he  puts  in  the  worst 
places.  His  hand  is  heavy  against  them.  One  fine  day 
the  sticks  will  come  out  and  there'll  be  heads  broken,  as 
happened  on  the  road  back  in  '60.  I  was  in  that  and 
carry  the  mark  of  it  on  my  pate  to  this  hour.  Pray  I'll 
be  there  when  this  one  falls." 

"I'd  like  to  be  with  you,  Japhra." 

Japhra  showed  his  tight-lipped  smile  :  "Well,  a  camp 
fight  with  the  sticks  out  and  the  heads  cracking  is  a  proper 
game  for  a  man,  master.  Thou'dst  be  a  handy  one  at  it, 
I  warrant  me"  — 

Ima  broke  in  with  her  first  contribution  to  their  talk. 
She  said  quickly:  "Shame,  Father.  Not  for  such  as 
he  —  fights  and  the  rough  ways." 

But  she  was  silent  again  and  without  reply  when 
Percival  sought  to  rally  her  for  this  opinion  of  him ;  and 
Japhra  twinkled  at  him  and  said :  "There's  one  would  like 
to  meet  thee,  though  —  sticks  or  fists";  and  went  on, 
when  Percival  inquired  who:  "Thy  friend  Pin  sent. 
Thy  name  of  Foxy  for  him  has  stuck  to  him  and  he  has 
not  forgiven  thee.  A  fine  fighter  he  has  grown  —  boxed 
in  some  class  rings  for  good  purses  in  the  winter  months, 
and  in  the  summer  is  a  great  attraction  at  the  fairs. 
Boss  Maddox  is  fond  of  him.  Boss  Maddox  has  fitted 
him  with  a  booth  of  his  own  and  he  gets  the  crowds  — 
deserves  'em,  too.  But  'Foxy'  has  stuck  to  him  —  and 
suits  him.  He  hates  it;  and's  not  forgotten  where  he 
owes  it." 

Percival  laughed.  "Well,  if  he's  done  so  well,  I  ought 
to  be  proud  to  have  given  him  something  to  remember  me 
by.     He  could  wallop  me  to  death,  of  course." 


IMA'S  LESSONS  243 

"There's  few  of  his  weight  he  could  not  hand  the  goods 
to,"  Japhra  agreed.  He  looked  estimatingly  at  Percival 
and  added  :  "One  that  could  keep  the  straight  left  in  his 
face  a  dozen  rounds'd  serve  it  up  to  him,  though.  Foxy 
has  no  bowels  for  punishment.     I  have  watched  him." 

And  again  Ima  broke  in.  "  Ah,  why  dost  talk  so  ?  "  she 
addressed  her  father.  "He  is  nothing  for  such  ways  — 
fights  and  the  fighting  sort." 

This  time  Percival  would  not  let  her  opinion  of  him 
escape  without  challenge.  "Why,  Ima!"  he  turned  to 
her,  "that's  the  second  time  you've  said  that.  Seems  to 
me  you  think  I  ought  to  be  wrapped  in  cotton-wool." 

His  voice  was  bantering,  but  had  a  note  of  impatience. 
The  events  of  the  day  had  not  made  him  in  humour  to 
take  lightly  any  estimate  of  himself  that  seemed  to  re- 
flect on  his  manliness. 

She  noticed  it.  Her  voice  when  she  answered  him  had 
a  caressing  sound  as  though  she  realised  she  had  vexed 
him  and  would  beg  excuse.  "Nay,  only  that  thou  art 
not  for  the  rough  ways  —  such  as  thou,"  she  said ;  and, 
mollified,  he  laughed  and  told  her:  "Well,  you  never 
used  to  think  so,  anyway.  You've  changed,  you  know, 
Ima,  changed  a  lot  since  I  last  saw  you." 

"And  should  have  changed,"  Japhra  announced. 
"Scholar  with  lesson  books,  she  has  been  these  winter 
months." 

Percival  thought  that  very  quaint.  "Scholar,  Ima; 
have  you?"  he  asked  her,  and  saw  the  blood  run  up  be- 
neath her  dusky  skin.     "I  can't  imagine  you  at  lessons  ! " 

"Nor  those  who  taught  me,"  she  replied;  and  paused 
and  added  very  gravely,  speaking  in  her  gentle  voice, 
"Yet  have  I  learnt  —  and  still  shall  learn." 

Percival  asked  :    ' '  Learnt  what  ? ' ' 

Odd  her  ways  —  oddly  attractive,  oddly  disconcerting ; 


244  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

speaking  steadily  and  more  as  if  it  were  to  herself  and  not 
to  listeners  that  she  spoke.  "Learnt  to  sit  on  a  chair," 
she  told  him,  "and  to  sit  at  a  table  nicely ;  to  wear  shoes 
on  my  feet,  and  stockings;  to  go  to  church  and  sing  to 
God  in  heaven ;  to  talk  properly  as  house  folk  talk ;  to 
sleep  in  a  bed ;  to  wear  a  hat  and  stiff  clothes ;  to  abide 
within  doors  when  the  rain  falls  and  when  the  stars 
alight  in  the  sky  —  these  have  I  learnt." 

Percival  was  tempted  to  laugh,  but  her  gravity  forbade 
him.  "How  terrible  it  sounds  —  for  you!  But  why, 
Ima,  why?" 

She  did  not  answer  the  question.  She  smiled  gently  at 
him  and  went  on  with  the  same  air  of  speaking  to  herself : 
"Lessons  from  books,  also.  Figures  and  the  making  of 
sums ;  geography  —  as  capes  and  bays  and  what  men 
make  and  where ;  of  a  new  fashion  of  how  to  hold  the  pen 
stiffly  in  writing ;  of  nice  ways  in  speaking  —  chiefly 
that  I  should  say  '  you '  when  I  would  say  '  thou '  —  that  is 
hardest  to  me  ;  but  I  shall  learn." 

Something  almost  pleading  was  in  her  voice  as  she 
repeated,  "I  shall  learn;"  and  Percival  turned  for  relief 
of  his  puzzlement  to  Japhra:  "Why,  whatever 's  it  all 
for,  Japhra?" 

Japhra  gave  his  tight-lipped  smile.  "Woman's 
reasons  —  who  shall  disco^^er  such?"  But  Ima  made 
a  motion  of  protest,  and  he  went  on  :  "Nay,  the  chance 
fell,  and  truly  I  was  glad  she  should  have  woman's  com- 
pany —  and  gentle  company.  In  Norfolk  where  we 
pitched  the  winter  gone  by  was  a  doctor  I  had  known 
when  we  were  young  —  he  and  I.  He  shipped  twice 
aboard  a  cattle  boat  with  me,  having  the  restlessness  on 
him  in  those  days.  Now  I  found  him  stout  and  proper, 
but  not  forgetful  of  an  indifferent  matter  between  us. 
He  brought  his  lady  to  the  van,  and  she  conceived  a  fancy 


/ 


IMA'S  LESSONS  245 

for  Ima,  holding  her  a  fair,  wild  thing  that  should  be 
tamed.  Therefore  took  Ima  to  her  house  and  to  her 
board,  and  taught  her  as  she  hath  instructed  thee.  Thus 
was  the  manner  of  it ;  as  to  the  wherefore — why,  woman's 
reasons,  as  I  have  said,"  and  he  smiled  again. 

Ima  got  abruptly  to  her  feet.  The  meal  was  ended, 
and  she  began  to  collect  the  plates.  Her  action  plainly 
rebuked  the  further  questions  with  which  Percival  was 
playfully  turning  to  her.  He  offered  instead  to  help  her 
with  her  washing  of  the  dishes,  but  she  told  him  :  "Nay, 
maid's  work  this.  Abide  thou  with  father,  and  talk 
men's  talk."  In  the  action  of  moving  away  she  turned 
to  Japhra  and  added  her  earUer  plea:  "So  it  is  not  of 
boxing  and  the  rough  ways." 


CHAPTER  V 


JAPHRA  S   LESSONS 


Japhra  took  up  Ima's  words  when  she  had  left  them. 
"Nay, but  the  boxing  is  my  business,"  Japhra  said,  filHng 
his  pipe.  "I'm  for  the  boxing  again  this  summer. 
Money's  short  and  old  Pilgrim  yonder  has  full  earned  his 
rest  and  must  have  another  take  up  his  shafts.  Another 
horse  is  to  be  bought,  wherefore  a  sparring  booth  again 
for  me." 

Percival  asked:     "When  are  you  going?" 

"To-morrow.  I  pick  up  the  circus  by  Dorchester. 
My  lads  are  waiting  me.  Ginger  Cronk,  I  have  —  thou 
mind'st  Ginger  ?  —  and  Snowball  White,  a  useful  one. 
Stingo  seeketh  another  for  me.  A  good  lad,  I  must  have, 
if  the  money's  to  be  made,  for  Foxy  Pinsent  hath  a  brave 
show  that  will  draw  the  company  —  two  coloured  lads 
and  four  more  with  himself." 

Percival  was  silent.  "I  wish  I  could  go  with  you," 
he  said  presently:  "And  you're  going  to-morrow,  you 
say  ?  —  to-morrow  ?  " 

"At  daybreak,  master." 

"Ah!"  Percival  gave  a  hard  exclamation  as  though 
feelings  that  were  pent  up  in  him  escaped  him.  "Now 
I  had  found  you  again,  I  hoped  I  was  going  to  see  you 
often  for  a  bit.  My  luck's  right  out,"  and  he  gave  a 
little  laugh. 

Japhra  lit  his  pipe.  "  So  we  come  back  to  thy  trouble,'* 
he  said. 

246 


JAPHRA'S  LESSONS  247 

His  voice  and  a  motion  that  he  made  invited  confi- 
dence. Percival  watched  through  the  dusk  the  glow  from 
his  pipe,  now  hghting  his  face,  now  leaving  it  in  shadow. 
He  had  longed  to  tell  Japhra;    he  found  it  hard. 

After  a  moment :     "Hard  to  tell !"  he  jerked. 

*'How  to  bear  ?     That  is  the  measure  of  a  grief." 

"Impossible  to  bear !" 

"Tell,  then." 

"There's  Httle  to  be  told.  That's  it!  That's  the 
sting  of  it  —  so  little,  so  much.  A  man  must  do  some- 
thing with  his  life,  Japhra  ! " 

"Ay,  that  must  he,  else  Hfe  will  use  him,  breaking 
him." 

"Why,  that's  just  it !  That's  what  will  happen  to  me  ! 
I'm  a  man  —  they  think  I'm  not ;  there,  that's  the  pith 
of  it ! "  He  was  easier  now  and  in  the  way  of  words  that 
would  express  his  feelings.  He  went  on:  "Look, 
Japhra,  it's  like  this  — "  and  told  how  he  was  growing  up 
idler,  how  Aunt  Maggie  answered  all  his  protestations  for 
work  for  his  hands  to  do  by  bidding  him  only  wait  — 
and  he  ended  as  he  had  begun:  "A  man  must  do 
something  with  his  life  !" 

He  stopped,  —  aware,  and  somehow,  as  he  looked 
through  the  dusk  at  Japhra,  a  little  ashamed,  that  his 
feehngs  had  run  his  voice  to  a  note  of  petulance.  He 
stopped,  but  a  space  of  silence  came  where  he  had  looked 
for  answer.  Evening  by  now  was  full  about  the  camp. 
Night  that  evening  heralded  pressed  on  her  feet,  and  was 
already  to  be  seen  against  the  light  in  the  windows  of  the 
van  where  Ima  had  lit  the  lamp.  From  the  pool  was  the 
intermittent  whirring  of  a  warbler;  somewhere  a  dis- 
tant cuckoo  called  its  engaging  note  that  drowsy  birds 
should  not  make  bedtime  yet.  In  the  pines  a  song- 
thrush  had  its  psalm  to  make ;  at  intervals  it  paused  and 


248  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

the  air  took  a  night-jar's  whirr  and  catch  and  whirr 
again.     Old  Pilgrim  cropped  the  grass. 


II 

Percival  said  :  "What  are  you  thinking  of,  Japhra  ?" 

''Of  Hfe." 

*'Whatof  hfe?" 

"How  hot  it  runs." 

"Meaning  me  —  I'm  in  a  vile  temper,  I  daresay  you 
think." 

"How  hot  it  runs,  master  —  how  cold  it  comes  and 
how  Httle  the  profit  of  it." 

Percival  said  heavily  :    "What  is  the  use  of  it,  then  ?  " 

Japhra  bent  forward  to  him  and  Percival  saw  the  little 
man's  tight-Hpped,  firm-lined  countenance  with  the  tran- 
quil strength  of  mind  that  abode  in  the  steady  aspect  of 
the  bright  eyes,  deep  beneath  their  strong  brows. 

"The  use?"  Japhra  said.  "Nay,  that  is  the  wrong 
way  of  estimate.  For  thee  in  thy  mood,  for  all  men  when 
Ufe  presses  them,  inquire  rather  what  is  the  hurt  of  it. 
How  shall  so  small  a  thing  as  life,  a  thing  so  profitless,  that 
soon  becomes  so  cold,  returneth  to  earth  and  is  nothing 
remembered  nor  required  —  how  shall  so  small  a  ■'^hing 
offend  thee  and  make  shipwreck  of  thy  content  ?  Thus 
shouldst  thou  judge  of  it." 

"Some  men  are  not  soon  forgotten,  Japhra." 

"Ay,  master,  and  what  men?  They  that  have  seen 
how  small  a  thing  is  hfe  and  have  recked  nothing  of  it." 

"How  have  they  done  great  things,  then?  —  fought 
battles,  written  books?" 

"Why,  master,  how  wrote  Bunyan  in  chains  or  Milton 
in  blindness?" 

"They  didn't  mind." 


JAPHRA'S  LESSONS  249 

"Even  so.  Profitless  they  knew  life  to  be,  and  cared 
not  how  it  tasked  them." 

"But,  Japhra,  that's  —  that's  all  upside  down.  Are 
there  two  things  in  a  man,  then  —  life  and  —  ?" 

Japhra  said:  "So  we  come  to  it  —  and  to  thee. 
Truly  there  are  two  things:  Hfe  which  is  here  in  the 
green  leaf,  and  gone  in'  the  dry ;  and  the  spirit  which 
goeth  God  knows  where  —  into  the  sea  that  ever  moves, 
the  wind  that  ever  blows,  the  sap  that  ever  rises  —  who 
shall  say  ?  But  knoweth  not  death  and  haply  endureth 
forever  if  it  were  mighty  enough  —  as  Milton,  as 
Bunyan.  Look  at  me,  master,  for  that  is  the  plain  fact 
of  it  and  the  balsam  for  all  thy  hurts." 

He  stopped  and  drew  slowly  at  his  pipe  with  little  puffs 
that  floated  to  Percival  like  grey  thistledown  dropping 
through  the  night. 

"Go  on,"  Percival  said.     "Go  on,  Japhra." 

"Why,  there  thou  hast  it,"  Japhra  told  him.  "Lay 
hold  on  thy  spirit  —  let  that  be  thy  charge  ;  and  of  what 
Cometh  against  thee  take  no  heed  save  to  rebuke  it  as  a 
boxer  rebuketh  the  cunning  of  him  that  is  matched 
against  him.  So  was  the  way  of  Crusoe,  of  old  Bunyan's 
Pilgrim,  and  of  the  Bible  men,  and  that  is  why  I  call  them 
the  books  for  a  fighting  man.  Here's  my  way  of  it, 
master  —  there's  force  in  the  world  that  moves  the  tides 
and  blows  the  winds  and  maketh  the  green  things  grow. 
Out  of  that  force  I  unriddle  it  we  come,  and  back  to  it 
return.  In  some  the  spirit  is  utterly  swallowed  up  in  Hfe, 
and  at  death  crawleth  back  suftocated  and  befouled  and 
only  fit  to  come  again  in  some  rank  growth  —  so  much  a 
lesser  thing  than  when  it  came  springing  to  a  human 
breast  that  the  force  of  the  world  whence  it  came  is  by  so 
much  lessened  and  can  give  birth  to  a  flower  less  and  a 
toadstool  more." 


2  50  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"And  then  there's  the  other  way  about,"  said  Percival, 
attracted  by  this  argument. 

"Ay,  truly  the  other  way  about,  master.  The  way  of 
the  mighty  men  in  whom  the  spirit  rebuketh  hfe  and  in- 
creaseth,  and  at  death  goeth  shouting  back — so  quicken- 
ing the  force  of  the  world  that,  just  as  the  cup  spilleth  when 
much  is  added,  so  there  be  mighty  storms  when  great  men 
die  —  thunders  and  rushing  winds,  great  Hghtnings  and 
vast  seas." 

Percival  drew  a  long  breath.  ".Why,  it's  a  fine  idea, 
Japhra  —  fine." 

"Look  at  a  case  of  it,"  Japhra  said.  " My  Bible  in  the 
van  there  hath  one.  I  have  it  by  heart.  Look  when 
Christ  died.  Never  a  man  than  He  cared  less  how  Kfe 
tasked  Him ;  and  at  His  death  —  when  there  went 
shouting  back  the  spirit  that  He  had  increased  beyond  the 
increase  of  any  man — look  thou  what  came  :  'And  behold 
the  veil  of  the  Temple  was  rent  in  twain  from  the  top  to 
the  bottom ;  and  the  earth  quaked ;  and  the  rocks  rent 
and  the  graves  were  opened.'  And  again  :  'And  it  was 
about  the  sixth  hour ;  and  there  was  darkness  c^er  all 
the  earth  until  the  ninth  hour;  and  the  sun  was  dark- 
ened.'" 

He  stopped ;  and  Percival  breathed  long  and  deep 
again:  "Fine,  Japhra  —  fine.  I  never  thought  of  it 
like  that.     Fine  —  I  think  I  see." 

"Surely  thou  dost,  master;  or  any  man  that  giveth 
thought  to  it.  Take  it  to  thine  own  case  —  that  is  my 
word  to  thee.  Reck  nothing  how  life  assaileth  —  hold 
on  only  to  thy  spirit.  Thou  wouldst  be  doing  something 
and  art  irked  by  the  bonds  that  hold  thee  —  never  fear 
but  that  in  its  time  the  thing  will  come.  I  have  seen  men 
—  I  know  the  fashion  of  them.  Thou  art  of  the  mould 
and  mind  to  which  adventures  come.     See  to  it  thou  art 


JAPHRA'S  LESSONS  251 

ready  for  them  when  they  arrive  —  trained  as  the  boxer 
is  against  the  big  fight." 

Percival  said  heavily:  "What's  the  prize,  Japhra?" 
Now  that  the  application  of  this  engaging  view  was 
pressed  to  his  own  case  he  had  a  dark  vision  of  what  it 
required  of  him.     "What's  the  prize  ? " 

"Why,  content !  Look,  httle  master,  here's  happiness, 
here's  content  —  and  content  is  all  the  world's  gold  and 
all  its  dreams.  Whatever  cometh  against  thee,  whether 
through  the  flesh  or  through  the  mind,  get  thou  the  mas- 
tery of  it.  How?  Every  man  according  to  his  craft. 
The  philosophers,  the  reckoners  —  theirs  to  judge  bad 
against  good  and  find  content  that  way.  That  was  old 
Crusoe's  manner  of  it.  Thou  art  the  fighting  type  —  the 
Ring  for  thee." 

Percival  got  abruptly  to  his  feet.  At  the  same  moment 
Ima  opened  the  door  of  the  van  and  stood  above  them  — 
held,  as  it  were,  upon  the  light  that  streamed  from  the 
interior. 

"The  Ring  for  thee,"  Japhra  repeated,  "there  to  meet 
and  conquer  all  thy  vexations.  Make  a  boxer  of  thy 
spirit.  Step  back  through  the  ropes  then  and  take  up  the 
champion  belt  marking  thee  thine  own  man,  thine  own 
master  :  a  proud  and  jewelled  thing  to  wear  —  content." 

Ima's  voice  broke  in  upon  them.  "The  champion 
belt?"  she  said.     "What,  is  it  still  boxing,  thy  talk?" 

Japhra  turned  his  face  up  to  her  and  the  lamphght 
showed  the  twinkling  with  which  he  met  the  reproach  in 
her  voice.  "Why,  it  is  my  trade,"  he  said,  "  and  thine. 
In  two  days  thou'lt  be  taking  the  money  at  the  door 
of  my  booth." 

"Not  his  trade,  though,"  she  answered. 

Percival  said  :  "Japhra,  would  I  be  a  likely  one  for  your 
booth,  do  you  think  ?" 


252  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

He  was  holding  out  his  hand  in  the  action  of  farewell. 
Japhra  got  up  and  took  it  and  held  it.  "Why,  if  I  get  as 
proper  a  build  as  thine  for  my  third  lad  I  will  put  a  pohsh 
to  it  that  would  vex  Foxy  Pinsent  himself.  Keep  up  the 
boxing,  master.     Art  thou  going  ?  " 

Percival   said   abruptly,   "Yes,  I'm  going."     He   re- 
leased the  hand  and  went  away  a  step.     "I'm  going. 
I've  a  longish  way  home  and  things  to  do  before  bedtime. 
You'll  be  gone  at  daybreak  ?" 
"At  dawn,  Httle  master." 
"  On  the  Dorchester  road  ?  " 
"Ay,  to  Dorchester." 

"All  the  luck  with  you,  Japhra.  I'm  better  for  seeing 
you."  He  spoke  jerkily  as  though  his  throat  were  full 
and  speech  difficult.  He  stopped  abruptly,  and  half 
turned  away ;  then,  recollecting  Ima,  went  back  to  the 
van  and  stretched  up  his  hand  to  where  she  stood: 
"Good  night,  Ima." 

She  stooped  down  to  him.  The  action  brought  her 
face  into  the  darkness  and  he  noticed  how  her  wide  eyes, 
as  she  stooped,  seemed  actually  to  fight  it.  "  FareweU  ! " 
she  said. 

It  was  perhaps  that  he  had  so  obviously  only  attended 
to  her  as  an  afterthought  that  her  throat,  for  aU  the 
sound  her  word  had,  might  have  been  as  full  as  his. 
Some  thought  of  the  kind  —  that  he  had  been  churfish 
to  her  — crossed  him.  He  said  more  kindly:  "I  say, 
though  !  your  hand  is  cold,  Ima." 

She  withdrew  her  fingers,  giving  him  no  reply.  But  as 
he  turned  away  and  went  a  step,  "What  of  thy  way 
home?"  she  cried,  and  cried  it  on  a  sudden  note  as 
though  it  went  against  her  will. 

"By  the  Ridge,"  he  told  her.  "By  Plowman's  Ridge 
and  then  along." 


JAPHRA'S  LESSONS  253 

She  answered  him  :  "  Yes,  I  am  cold.  I  will  warm  me 
to  the  Ridge  with  thee  —  if  thou  wilt  suffer  me. " 

In  the  mood  that  was  on  him  he  had  preferred  to  be 
alone.  But  under  the  same  apprehension  of  having  been 
churlish  to  her,  "Why,  that's  jolly  of  you,"  he  said. 


Ill 

She  went  within  the  van  a  few  moments ;  and  while  he 
waited  he  had  a  last  exchange  with  Japhra :  "You've 
helped  me,  Japhra.  But  I  shall  disappoint  you  if  I'm 
tried  too  hard.  Content  —  I'll  make  a  fight  for  it.  But 
I  shall  not  endure  it  very  well  if  I  am  still  to  be  idler." 
He  gave  a  hard  Httle  laugh.  "When  it's  a  fight  for  mas- 
tery of  myself  I  shall  disappoint  you,  I  believe." 

Japhra  told  him:  "I  have  seen  men,  master,  and 
know  the  fashion  of  them.  Thou  wilt  not  disappoint 
me." 

"You  can't  say  that  of  any  one  —  for  certain." 

"I  say  it  of  thee.  Though  thou  failest  a  score  times 
thine  is  the  mould  that  comes  again  —  for  that  I  shall 
look.  Listen  to  me,  little  master  —  that  name  clings : 
I  cannot  shake  it  from  me.  Listen  to  me.  Thy  t>pe 
runneth  hot  through  Hfe  till  at  last  it  cometh  to  the  big 
fight.  Send  me  news  of  that."  He  struck  a  match  to 
relight  his  pipe  and  cupped  the  flame  against  his  face. 
"Send  only  'The  Big  Fight,  Japhra,'"  he  said. 

The  flame  of  his  match  built  up  the  dusky  night  in 
walls  of  immense  blackness.  In  their  heart  Percival  saw 
the  kindly  face  with  its  tight  hnes  and  keen  eyes.  "I 
shall  know  the  winner,"  Japhra  said;  and  the  cup  of 
hght  within  his  hands  shadowed  and  Ht  again  his  face 
as  he  nodded. 

The  Big  Fight  was  drawing  towards  Percival.     Aunt 


254  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Maggie  had  the  very  date  of  it,  and  the  articles  reckoned 
and  ready.  When  it  rushed  suddenly  upon  him  and  he 
was  in  its  stress  and  agony,  he  remembered  the  Hghted 
face,  the  confident  nod  and  the  message  that  was  to  be 
sent. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WITH  IMA   ON  plowman's   RIDGE 


Ima  had  put  on  shoes  and  stockings  when  she  reap- 
peared from  the  van  and  joined  Percival  to  accompany 
him  to  the  Ridge.  The  two  were  come  almost  to  the 
Down's  skirt  before  they  exchanged  words.  "I  have 
things  to  do  before  bedtime,"  Percival  had  told  Japhra ; 
and  as  he  walked  he  was  too  occupied  by  the  thoughts  of 
what  he  purposed  —  hunted  by  them  as  the  tumult  of  his 
concerns  had  hunted  him  earlier  in  the  day  —  to  give 
attention  to  Ima  who  had  come  with  him  when  he  had 
preferred  to  be  alone.  She  was  perhaps  aware  of  that. 
She  followed  the  half  of  a  pace  behind  the  short,  impatient 
steps  that  partnered  —  and  signified  —  his  mood,  her 
eyes  watching  what  of  his  face  she  could  see  and  ever  and 
again  turning  swiftly  ahead,  as  though  she  feared  he 
might  catch  her  at  it  and  feared  that  might  offend  him  ; 
so  a  dog  that  knows  itself  unwanted  may  be  seen,  wistful 
at  its  master's  heels  —  with  Httle  wags  of  a  timid  tail 
and  with  beseeching  glances;  eager  to  communicate 
some  succour  to  this  angry  mood ;  afraid  to  hazard  what 
may  further  vex. 

Yet  he  was  pleasant  when  presently  he  spoke  to  her. 

They  stepped  from  a  dense  lane  about  whose  mouth 
and  overhead  the  arching  brambles  trailed  as  though  to 
curtain  a  sanctuary  from  trespass  by  outer  dust  and 
breeze  and  light.     Before  them  the  Down  ran  smooth  and 


256  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

grey  to  where,  beneath  the  moon,  it  took  a  silver  rim 
along  the  line  of  Plowman's  Ridge.  A  harsher  scent  was 
here  than  briar  and  wild  rose  breathed  within  the  lane 
and  jealously  entwined  to  hold  there ;  the  breeze  came 
with  a  swifter  touch  to  the  face ;  the  light  challenged  the 
eyes  that  the  gloom  had  rested. 

Together  their  effects  aroused  Percival's  senses  from 
his  thoughts  to  his  companion. 

"Warmer  now,  Ima?"  he  asked. 

"Warmer now, Httle master, "and she  smiled  and  added; 
"unseemly  to  call  thee  that,  now  thou  hast  grown  so." 

He  moved  with  her  to  a  gate  that  faced  the  Down,, 
"Let's  rest  a  bit,"  he  said.  "Why,  we've  bcth  grown; 
Ima,  since  the  last  time  I  saw  you.  You've  grown, 
You've  put  up  your  hair  —  properly  grown  up.  I  shall 
have  to  treat  you  with  terrible  respect." 

She  did  not  respond  to  his  light  tone.  Her  eyes  that 
looked  quietly  at  him  had  a  grave  air.  "  I  am  a  gipsy  girl 
to  thee,"  she  said.  " I  am  not  for  thy  respect  —  such  as 
me.  For  ladies  that."  And  before  he  could  answer  her 
she  went  on:  "What  of  that  Httle  lady  thou  hast  told 
me  of  —  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red  as  thou  didst  name 
her  to  me?" 

He  did  not  notice  a  changed  tone  —  to  be  desc/ibed  as 
stiff  —  in  her  voice.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  in  the 
matter  of  his  respect  she  made  comparison  between  her- 
self and  her  whom  she  named  with  his  fond  name  for 
her ;  he  was  only  surprised  and  only  grateful  to  have  that 
name  spoken  to  him. 

"Why,  she's  grown,"  he  said.  "  Fancy  you  remember- 
ing her,  Ima !" 

Eagerness  was  in  his  voice.  "I  am  cold  again,"  she 
told  him,  and  drew  away.     "Let  us  go  up  the  Down." 

He  did  not  follow  her  movement  or  her  words,  but 


WITH  IMA  ON  PLOWMAN'S  RIDGE      257 

pursued  his  own  "  —  remembering  that  I  called  her  that, 
anyway,"  he  said. 

If  it  had  been  her  purpose  to  dismiss  the  subject,  at 
least  she  earned  herself  his  full  attention  by  the  swiftness 
with  which  she  turned  upon  him  and  by  the  swiftness  of 
her  reply.  *'It  is  thee  I  remember,"  she  answered  him. 
"Not  her  —  or  any  such.  Thou  wast  my  friend  when  we 
played  boy  and  girl  together.  All  thou  hast  done  with 
me,  all  thou  hast  told  me,  point  me  the  way  to  thee  as 
remembered  marks  along  the  road  point  to  a  camping- 
place —  no  more,  and  of  themselves  nothing." 

She  had  his  attention ;  but  he  attributed  the  quickness 
of  her  speech  and  her  odd  thought  and  simile  only  to  the 
general  oddness  of  her  ways.  "Well,  you  needn't  go 
back  to  those  days  in  future,"  he  told  her.  "We're 
friends  now  just  as  much  as  then." 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled.  "Nay,  after  this  day 
I  must  needs  go  farther  back,"  she  said,  her  voice  smooth 
again.  "Thou  dost  not  understand  —  playmate  days  I 
peek.  I  He  in  my  bed  on  the  fine  nights  with  the  van  door 
wide,  and  watch  the  stars  and  play  I  walk  among  them  — 
irom  star  to  star  and  round  about  among  the  stars,  high 
to  the  van's  roof  and  low  to  where  the  trees  and  hills 
stretch  up  to  them  :  thou  with  me  as  when  first  I  knew 
thee  —  in  that  wise  I  seek  thee;  not  thus"  —  she  broke 
off  and  changed  the  note  of  her  voice.  "What  talk  is 
this?"  she  smiled.  "Childish  fancies  —  they  are  not 
for  thee,"  and  she  moved  away  and  he  followed  her  up 
the  Down. 

"  Ima,  they're  pretty  fancies,  though,"  he  said.  "And, 
you  know,  you'll  lose  them  all  if  you  aren't  careful  —  if 
you  go  making  yourself  stiff  and  proper  with  those  ex- 
traordinary lessons  of  yours.  What  are  they  for,  those 
lessons?    They'll  spoil  you,  Ima.     They'll  make  you 


2  58  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

quite  different.    All  that  kind  of  thing  is  for  —  for  the 
others  —  for  what  you'd  call  fine  ladies." 

"Even  so,"  she  said;  and  pronounced  the  words  as  if 
—  though  to  his  mind  they  explained  nothing  —  every- 
thing was  explained  by  them ;  and  said  no  more  until  the 
crest  of  Plowman's  Ridge  was  reached. 


II 

He  was  willing  enough  for  his  own  part  to  relapse  into 
his  own  thoughts.  He  went  so  deeply  into  ::hem  that, 
coming  to  the  Ridge  and  involuntarily  pausing  there,  he 
was  twice  told  by  her  "Here  I  return,"  before  he  was 
aroused  to  her  again.  Bemused,  he  stared  at  her  a 
moment  as  one  stares  that  is  aroused  from  sleep,  and  his 
mind  jumped  back  in  confusion  to  the  last  words  that  had 
passed  between  them.  "Well,  if  you  were  so  anxious  for 
the  lessons,  why  did  you  give  them  up  when  the  winter 
was  over?" 

She  answered  him  —  sadness  in  her  voice  rather  than 
reproach — "We  have  done  that  talk  long  since.  Thou 
dost  not  heed  me.  It  is  that  I  am  going  that  I  am  telling 
thee." 

He  knew  he  had  been  careless  of  her  again,  and  sought 
to  laugh  it  off.  "Well,  it  is  why  you  stopped  your  lessons 
that  I  am  asking  thee,"  he  mimicked  her.  "Woman's 
reasons,  Ima?" 

She  threw  out  her  hands  towards  him  in  a  gesture  of 
appeal.  "Ah,  do  not  toy  me  woman's  reasons,"  she  said. 
"Think  me  less  hght  than  that  —  if  thou  thinkest  of  me. 
Not  woman's  reasons  bade  me  back  to  the  van  when 
winter  broke.  Not  woman's  reasons.  I  knew  me 
there  were  green  buds  in  the  ditches  beneath  the  dead 
wet  leaves.     I  had    discovered    them  to  the  sun  and 


WITH  IMA  ON  PLOWMAN'S  RIDGE      259 

the  breezes  many  years  —  turning  back  the  leaves  and 
smelling  the  smell  they  have.  How  could  I  stay 
beneath  a  roof  when  I  had  thoughts  of  such?" 

She  drew  a  deep  and  tremulous  breath  of  the  mild 
night  air  as  though  she  inhaled  the  scents  of  which 
she  spoke,  and  he  watched  her  gaze  across  the  eastward 
vale  with  those  starry  eyes  that,  as  she  went  on,  never  the 
lids  unstarred,  and  she  said:  "Thoughts  of  such  —  of 
green  buds  in  the  ditches  beneath  the  moulding  leaves 
that  waited  for  me  to  uncover  them  and  knew  me  when  I 
came ;  of  the  first  cloud  of  dust  along  the  road  —  dust, 
ah  !  of  tiny  sprigs  on  every  bough  that  I  might  run  to  see ; 
of  busy  birds  steahng  the  straws  and  coming  for  the  bits 
of  cloth  and  wool  they  know  I  place  for  them ;  of  early 
Hght  with  all  the  trees  and  fields  wet  and  aglisten;  of 
gentle  evenings  when  the  new  stars  come  dropping  down 
the  sky ;  of  the  road  —  the  road,  ah  !  —  I  sitting  on  the 
shafts;  of  the  cool  brooks,  and  leading  Pilgrim  in  and 
hearing  him  suck  the  water  and  hearing  him  tear  the 
grass ;  of  the  running  stream  about  my  feet  and  the  soft 
grass  that  sinks  a  little  —  these  bade  me  back." 

She  turned  to  him  and  said  in  the  low  voice  in  which 
she  had  been  speaking:  "Not  women's  reasons  these." 
She  changed  her  voice  to  one  that  cried :  "  Remember  me 
that  if  I  am  not  like  fine  ladies  I  cannot  help  be  what  I  am 
with  these  things  speaking  to  me.  Now  I  am  going," 
and  she  went  swiftly  from  him  and  was  a  dozen  paces 
gone  before  he  called  her  back. 

Ill 

"Ima  !"  While  she  spoke  he  had  envisaged  what  she 
told,  setting  its  freedom  and  its  elemental  note  to  his  own 
desires  as  one  sets  music  that  stirs  th-e  breast.     Shaking 


26o  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

himself  from  the  spell,  "  Ima !"  he  called,  and  went  to 
her.     "Don't  go  Uke  that.     Say  good-by  properly." 

She  stopped  short  and  put  her  hand  to  her  side  as 
though  his  call  had  launched  a  shaft  that  struck  her.  She 
did  not  turn  —  as  though  she  dared  not  turn  —  until  he 
was  close  up  to  her,  touching  her.  Then  she  turned,  and 
he  saw  her  eyes  amazingly  Ht,  and  as  they  met  his,  saw 
the  light  pass  like  a  star  extinguished.  If  was  as  if  she 
had  expected  much  and  had  found  nothing ;  and  it  was 
so  pronounced  that  he  said:  "Ima!  Why,  what  did 
you  think  I  was  going  to  say  ?" 

There  was  a  wild  rose  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress  that 
she  had  plucked  as  they  came  through  the  lane.  She 
bent  her  head  to  it  and  put  her  hands  to  it  in  the  action 
of  one  that  seeks  to  cover  lack  of  words  by  some  occupa- 
tion. She  drew  the  flower  from  her  breast  and  placed 
it  in  his  coat,  pinning  it  there. 

"That's  right,"  he  smiled.  "I'll  keep  that  to  remem- 
ber you  by.  What  did  you  think  I  was  going  to  say? 
You  seemed  as  though  you  expected  something  —  then 
as  if  you  were  disappointed.     What  was  it?" 

She  was  very  careful  in  settling  the  flower.  Then  she 
dropped  her  hands  and  looked  up  at  him.  "I  asked 
nothing,"  she  said.     "How  should  I  be  disappointed?" 

"Asked  !    No  !    I  saw  it  in  your  eyes." 

She  answered  swiftly,  almost  as  one  speaking  in  men- 
ace of  offending  words:    "What  in  mine  eyes?" 

"Why,  what  I  tell  you.  As  though  you  expected 
something  and  were  disappointed." 

"No  more?"  she  inquired,  and  repeated  it  —  "No 
more?" 

"No  more  —  no.  But  I  want  to  know  why  —  or 
what?" 

She  gave  a  gentle  laugh  and  relaxed  her  attitude  that 


WITH  IMA  ON  PLOWMAN'S  RIDGE      261 

had  been  strained,  in  keeping  with  her  voice.  She  seemed 
to  have  feared  he  had  derived  some  secret  that  she  had ; 
and  she  seemed  glad  and  yet  a  little  sad  her  eyes  had  not 
betrayed  her.  She  gave  a  gentle  laugh  and  threw  her 
hands  apart  as  if  to  show  how  small  a  thing  was  here. 

"Why,  Httle  master,  there  is  nothing  in  that,"  she 
said.  "The  eyes  light  for  that  the  heart  runneth  to 
peep  through  them  as  a  child  to  the  window." 

He  laughed  at  the  pleasant  fancy:  "Well,  what  did 
your  heart  run  to  see?" 

"Nay,  I  have  not  done,"  she  told  him.  "Look  also 
how  one  may  see  a  child  run  happily  past  the  window  — 
from  the  van  I  have  seen  it :  so  sometimes  the  heart  but 
passeth  across  the  eyes  with  a  glad  face,  singing  from  one 
happy  thought  to  where  another  waits.  I  think  my  heart 
passed  so  and  thou  didst  catch  the  gleam." 

He  heard  her  take  in  a  quick  breath  as  her  words  ended. 
Then,  "Suffer  me  to  go  now,"  she  said.  "Keep  my 
pretty  flowers;"  and  turned  and  went  swiftly  from  him 
down  the  slope ;  and  was  dim  where  the  moonlight  faded  ; 
and  was  gone  in  the  further  darkness. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ALONE  ON  plowman's  RIDGE 


She  was  as  quickly  gone  from  Percival's  mind  as  from 
his  sight.  Now  that  he  was  free  and  alone  —  as  he  had 
wished  to  be  alone  —  he  faced  about  with  an  abrupt 
movement  and  began  to  set  homewards  at  a  swift  pace 
along  the  Ridge ;  simultaneously  his  mind  returned  to 
his  own  business. 

He  had  reached  a  sudden  determination  while  he  talked 
with  Japhra ;  he  found  his  mind  carried  forward  to  the 
scenes  of  its  prosecution,  and  he  was  made  to  breathe 
deeply  and  to  walk  fast  as  he  visioned  them.  A  conflict 
possessed  him  and  tore  at  him  as  he  went.  Before  he 
got  to  bed  that  night  he  would  have  from  Aunt  Maggie 
what  she  purposed  for  his  future  —  he  would  have  it  in 
definite  words  —  he  would  not  be  put  off  by  vague  gen- 
eralisations —  he  would  accept  nothing  in  the  nature 
of  "next  year  will  be  time  enough  to  decide"  —  nay,  nor 
"next  month,"  nor  "next  week"  —  he  would  have  it 
definitely,  clearly,  unmistakably  now.  That  was  his 
determination;  thence  arose  the  conflict.  He  assured 
himself  as  he  walked  that  let  him  but  know  Aunt 
Maggie's  intentions,  and  however  cruel,  however  im- 
possible, however  unendurable  they  might  be,  he  would 
follow  wise  Japhra's  advice  —  would  meet  in  the  ring 
as  if  it  were  a  physical  antagonist  the  passionate  impulse 
to  reward  all  kind  Aunt  Maggie's  love  by  violent  refusal 
to  obey  her  —  would  meet  and  would  defeat  it  there. 

262 


ALONE  ON  PLOWMAN'S   RIDGE         263 

He  threw  up  his  head  as  he  so  thought  and  had  his  fists 
clenched  and  his  jaw  set.  The  action  made  him  conscious 
of  old  friend  wind.  At  this  the  pitch  of  his  heat,  "Ha  ! 
Ha  !  Ha  !"  shouted  old  friend  wind  in  his  ears.  "Ac- 
cept idleness  if  Aunt  Maggie  so  desires,  will  you  ?  — 
and  the  laughter  and  contempt,  eh  ?     Ha  !  Ha  !   Ha  !" 

He  put  down  his  head  again.  The  wind  was  getting 
up ;  it  took  some  buffeting. 

He  began  to  reason  now  that  he  should  have  argued 
with  Japhra  when  Japhra  laid  down  the  law  of  self- 
discipline  and  moral  conduct. 

"You  can't  make  one  rule  to  cover  everything  !"  he 
said  aloud,  driving  along  against  the  wind.  "A  man 
must  do  something  with  his  Hfe!"  he  cried. 

He  suddenly  realised  that  he  was  dallying;  he  sud- 
denly knew  that  he  was  weakening.  He  was  persuading 
himself  that  the  hour  of  the  fight  would  fall  when  he 
questioned  Aunt  Maggie ;  he  suddenly  realised  that  the 
battle  was  already  begun. 

II 

The  knowledge  brought  him  to  a  dead  halt.  His 
thoughts  had  fallen  in  train  with  his  steps :  he  had  the 
feeling  that  he  was  being  beaten  while  he  walked  —  only 
could  be  master  of  himself  while  he  stood  still  and  centred 
all  his  faculties  on  defeating  the  impulses  that  goaded  him 
as  they  had  goaded  him  earlier  in  the  day.  As  the  sufferer 
on  a  sick-bed  tosses  wearily  through  the  sleepless  night 
and  comes  from  weariness  to  savage  groans  and  curses 
that  rest  is  not  to  be  found  nor  a  cool  position  discovered, 
so  he  lashed  in  spirit  to  find  a  stable  thought  that  would 
support  him  amid  the  tumult  that  possessed  him.  He 
strove  to  image  Aunt  Maggie  with  gentle  eyes ;  he  could 


264  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

command  no  more  than  a  glimpse  before  she  was  pre- 
sented to  him  again  as  not  understanding  —  not  under- 
standing !  —  unkind,  unkind  !  He  directed  his  mind 
at  Japhra  and  strove  to  see  how  small  a  thing,  how  child- 
ish, how  petty  was  his  trouble;  in  a  moment,  "Prepos- 
terous! preposterous!"  shouted  the  tumult.  "A  small 
thing  to  others  ?  Easy  for  them  to  think  that.  Let 
them  apply  it  to  their  own  concerns  !  How  can  they 
judge  what  is  your  affair  alone  ?  If  you  are  struck,  can 
they  feel  your  pain  ?  If  you  are  starving,  can  they  meas- 
ure your  himger?"  And  again,  with  greater  cunning: 
"Why,  what  a  damnable  philosophy  is  this  that  calls 
upon  a  man  to  suffer  any  rebuke,  and  smile  and  submit, 
and  declare  it  is  a  small  thing,  unworthy  of  notice,  and 
cover  himself  with  sophistries  as  that  Hfe  is  too  big,  the 
sea  too  deep,  the  hills  too  high,  for  such  an  affair  to  cause 
affront !  What,  is  that  a  man's  part,  do  you  think  ?  A 
man's  part  —  or  a  coward's?" 

"Not  the  right  way  to  put  it!"  Percival  struggled. 
"A  false  way  to  look  at  it !" 

And  his  adversary,  with  deeper  cunning  yet:  "Is  it 
fight  you  would,  as  Japhra  bade  you?  You  did  not 
explain  all  the  circumstances  to  him.  A  man  must 
do  something  with  his  Hfe  —  he  admitted  that.  Is  it 
fight  you  would  ?  Why,  fight  then  !  Choose  your  own 
life.  Make  your  own  Hfe.  For  that  a  man  should 
fight !  Get  into  the  world  and  prove  yourself  a  man ! 
You  are  no  better  than  a  baby  here  —  worse  than  a  baby ; 
you're  a  lout.  What  sort  of  a  lout  will  you  be  in  another 
year  or  so  ?  What  will  they  think  of  you  then  ?  Ah, 
go  on ;  make  this  precious  ring-business  of  your  life. 
Rebuke  yourself  —  your  natural  desires,  your  rightful 
ambitions;  win  your  fight  as  Japhra  bade  you  win  it, 
and  then  when  all  laugh  at  you  or  ignore  you  for  a  con- 


ALONE  ON  PLOWMAN'S  RIDGE         265 

temptible  lout  —  then  tell  them,  tell  all  the  village  what  a 
rare  prize  you  have  really  won  —  tell  it  to  Rollo,  tell  it 
to  Dora!" 

The  poor  boy  cried  aloud:  "Oh,  these  infernal 
thoughts  !  These  infernal  thoughts  !  If  only  I  could 
get  them  out  of  my  head  —  think  of  something  else  !" 
He  was  going  mad  over  it,  he  told  himself.  His  head 
ached  —  ached.  It  would  all  come  right  —  there  was 
no  cause  for  all  this  worrying.  He  had  often  thought 
about  it  before  —  never  till  now,  till  to-day,  this  wild, 
maddening,  throbbing  fury  of  trouble.  What  was  it? 
What  was  it  that  caused  these  feelings  and  all  this  pain  — 
why,  why  was  he  so  taxed  and  tormented  ?  If  only  he 
could  get  it  out  of  his  mind,  could  think  of  something 
else  till  he  got  home  !  There  would  be  the  jolly,  jolly 
little  supper  with  Aunt  Maggie  awaiting  him;  after  it 
they  would  talk  quietly,  happily  together,  and  he  would 
tell  her  how  he  really  must  be  doing  something,  and  she 
would  understand  and  everything  would  be  put  right. 
If  only  he  could  get  it  out  of  his  mind  —  if  he  went  back 
now  as  he  was,  why,  he  was  not  in  a  fit  state  of  mind 
to  go  near  her  —  and  why  ?  why  ?  why  this  sudden 
difference,  this  sudden,  maddening,  throbbing  state  that 
o^oaded  and  tortured  like  a  wild  live  thing  within  his 
brain  ?  why  ? 

Ill 

More  reasoned  thoughts  these  —  at  least  a  conscious- 
ness of  his  condition  and  an  attempt  to  plumb  its  cause. 
More  reasoned  thoughts  —  and  they  brought  him  sud- 
denly to  a  calmer  moment  and  there  to  the  answer  he 
sought :  Dora. 

He  was  not  far  in  person  from  the  very  spot  where 
earher  in  the  day  the  vision  of  her  had  come  to  him  and 


266  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

he  had  breathed  her  name  and  had  her  name  come  float- 
ing about  him — Dora  !  Dora  !  Dora  !  soft  as  rose  petals 
fall,  sweet  as  they.  He  was  not  far  in  person  from  that 
spot — realising  her  in  spirit  he  was  aswoon  again  in  that 
vision's  ecstasy ;  and  suddenly  knew  what  reason  urged  his 
burning  mood,  and  suddenly  discovered  why  he  burned 
to  do.  She  the  sweet  cause  of  all  this  new  distress  !  — 
hers  the  dear  fault  that  life  was  now  thus  changed  ! 

Further  than  that  he  might  not  go  —  nor  cared  to 
seek.  It  was  not  his  —  nor  ever  belongs  to  youth  sud- 
denly under  the  sex  attraction  —  to  know  a  new  ichor 
was  mingled  with  his  blood,  causing  it  to  surge  and  boil 
and  test  the  very  fibre  of  his  veins.  Not  his  to  know  a 
sap  that  had  been  storing  in  his  xagour  was  now  released 
whence  it  had  stored  —  touching  new  strengths  that  had 
not  yet  been  felt;  flushing  the  brain  in  cells  not  yet 
aroused ;  and  crying,  and  cr}ing  to  be  relieved ;  and 
causing  in  his  strength  a  tingling  \dbrancy,  as  a  willow 
rod  that  has  been  bent  springs  upright  and  vibrates  when 
its  constraint  is  cut.  Not  his  to  know,  nor  care  to  seek, 
how  love  manifested  itself  within  him,  nor  what  love  was, 
nor  why  he  loved,  nor  if,  indeed,  love  were  this  sudden 
thing.  He  only  knew  that  what  had  served  his  boyhood 
could  not  sufiice  novv^  Dora  filled  his  mind ;  he  only  knew 
that  in  all  the  world  to  bring  to  Dora's  eyes  the  light  of 
admiration  was  his  sole  desire ;  he  only  knew  that  to  have 
her  hold  him  in  contempt  —  even  in  sHght  regard  —  was 
to  endure  an  outrage  unendurable ;  he  only  knew  he  was 
possessed  to  challenge  mighty  businesses  —  of  arms,  of 
strength,  of  courage,  of  riches  —  that  he  might  win  her 
smile. 

He  had  the  new  thoughts  now  for  which  he  had  cried 
while  the  tumult  of  right  and  wrong  conduct  vexed  him. 
She  filled  his  mind,  suffused  his  being,  stood  with  her 


ALONE  ON  PLOWMAN'S   RIDGE         267 

exquisite  face  before  his  eyes.  Peace  in  the  guise  of 
ardour  came  where  conflict  in  passion's  flame  had 
burned.  "If  only  I  could  see  her  before  I  go  home  !" 
he  thought. 

The  recollection  came  of  a  hot  day  earlier  in  the  week 
when,  at  lunch  with  Dora  and  Rollo  at  the  Old  Manor, 
they  had  conspired  to  abuse  the  sultry  weather.  "But 
the  evenings  are  worth  it,"  Dora  had  said.  "In  London 
it  is  different ;"  with  her  mother  she  had  just  come  from 
London  for  a  few  days  at  Abbey  Royal  before  she  went, 
for  her  last  term,  to  the  "finishing"  school  near  Paris. 
"In  London  it  is  different  —  often  more  stifling  at  night 
than  in  the  day.  But  here  !  Here  the  evenings  are 
worth  it.  Always  after  dinner  I  stroll  in  the  garden  — 
and  love  it." 

If  only  he  could  see  her  before  he  went  home  !  He 
looked  at  his  watch  beneath  the  moonhght.  Almost 
nine  o'clock  it  told  him.  That  would  be  about  her  hour. 
He  could  strike  across  to  Abbey  Royal  in  fifteen  minutes 
if  he  ran.  There  was  just  the  chance  !  —  just  the  chance 
of  a  glimpse  of  her,  the  first  glimpse  since  this  new  and 
adorable  sense  of  her  had  come  to  be  his.  He  might 
even  speak  with  her  —  hear  her  voice.  Hear  her  voice  ! 
—  it  was  the  utmost  desire  he  had  in  all  the  v/orld  ! 
There  was  just  the  chance  !  —  if  it  failed,  still  he  could 
see  the  home  where  she  Uved,  see  it  with  the  new  eyes 
that  now  were  his  —  her  home,  the  grounds  her  feet  had 
trod,  the  gates  her  hand  had  touched,  the  flowers  per- 
haps her  dress  had  brushed  or  she  had  stooped  to  breathe. 

There  was  just  the  chance  !  —  along  the  Ridge,  down 
to  Upabbot,  behind  the  church  and  so  to  her  home. 
His  mind  leapt  across  his  route,  eager  to  urge  his  pace. 
He  pocketed  his  watch  and  set  towards  the  shrine  that 
had  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WITH   DORA    IN   THE    DRIVE 


There  was  just  the  chance  !  "Ah,  Chance  be  kind  !" 
his  prayer,  but  in  the  simpler  form :  "If  only  I  can  see 
her  ! "  For  he  could  not  have  told  himself  precisely 
what  he  desired  of  her.  The  new  condition  of  mind  and 
body  that  possessed  him  was  too  newly  come  for  him 
clearly  to  understand  towards  what  it  impelled  him. 
We  speak  of  love  as  an  intoxication.  He  was  as  it  were 
beneath  the  first  and  sudden  influence  of  a  draught  of 
wine  more  potent  than  the  drinker  knows  —  causing 
an  elevation  of  the  spirits,  that  is  to  say,  a  sharper  note 
in  the  surroundings,  something  of  a  singing  in  the  ears ; 
a  readiness  for  adventure,  but  not  a  clear  notion  as  to 
the  form  of  adventure  required ;  a  sudden  comprehen- 
sion that  there  is  more  tingling  stuff  in  Hfe  than  ever  the 
dull  round  has  revealed ;  but  a  sense  that  it  is  there  and 
must  be  found  rather  than  an  exact  knowledge  of  what  it 
will  prove  to  be.  He  only  knew  he  wished  to  see  her; 
that  seemed  the  goal;  he  had  no  thoughts  nor  fancies 
to  take  him  to  what  might  lie  beyond  —  then  reached 
the  Abbey  gates  and  saw  the  drive,  and  saw  her  there, 
and  stopped  as  if  a  hand  suddenly  rebuked  him  in  the 
throat. 

That  he  felt  a  surge  run  through  his  being  and  flame 
upon  his  face,  that  he  felt  suddenly  abashed  and  could 
not  dare  to  make  his  presence  known  —  these  marked 
his  nearness  to  knowledge  of  his  state. 

268 


WITH  DORA  IN  THE  DRIVE  269 

II 

The  night  was  very  clear.  By  now  the  full  moon  had 
disdained  more  trifling  with  the  clouds  that  earUer  had 
joined  hands  about  her.  Far  to  the  west  they  trailed 
their  watery  burdens  to  the  hills:  she  queened  above 
them  —  queenly  serene,  aloof  in  the  unbounded  vault 
that  all  her  empery  of  stars  about  her  ruled  and  divided 
subject  to  her  rule.  The  Abbey  gates  stood  wide.  Be- 
tween their  pillars  Httle  breezes  came  to  him  and  brought 
to  him  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  that  banked  the 
drive  on  either  hand.  He  saw  they  also  stirred  the  dress 
and  some  Ught  scarf  that  Dora  wore. 

Mystery  was  here.  He  knew  not  what  —  only  that, 
conditioned  by  some  new  sense  that  caused  him  strange- 
ness, he  was  upon  the  threshold  of  things  as  yet  unknown. 

He  watched  —  afraid  as  yet.  She  was  stooped  above 
a  cluster  of  pansies.  While  he  looked,  she  plucked  a 
blossom  here  and  there,  her  hand  now  hovering  above 
their  shade  and  now  caress 'd  amid  their  bloom,  and 
raised  them  to  her  face. 

She  turned  then  and  came  towards  him ;  and  he  drew 
back  a  step.  Mystery  was  here;  not  yet,  not  yet  to 
chaUenge  what  it  held ! 

She  reached  the  gates  and  paused  a  moment.  The 
Httle  breezes  that  had  brought  the  flowers  to  him  stopped 
their  play;  her  scarf's  floating  ends  —  gossamer  and 
dehcately  painted  —  came  softly  to  her  sides.  You 
might  have  said  that  the  night  airs  had  heralded  her 
here,  had  taken  form  in  her  scarf's  ends  to  attend  her  as 
she  walked,  and  now  awaited  which  way  she  should 
please  to  move. 

Snow-White-and-Rose-Red !  The  childish  apprecia- 
tion of  her,  aroused  in  him  years  before,  returned  to  him 


270  THE   HAPPY   WARRIOR 

again.  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red  —  that  was  she ! 
As  when  a  child  he  had  been  caused  a  childish  wonder 
and  a  child's  unspoilt  delight  at  so  rare  a  thing  as  she  ap- 
peared to  him,  so  now,  seeing  her  for  the  first  time  with 
the  new  eyes  that  belonged  to  his  new  condition,  he  felt 
himself  amazed  and  almost  awed  that  beauty  could  have 
this  degree.  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red  !  All  she  had 
promised  in  her  girlish  years  dowered  her  now  in  the  bur- 
geoning of  her  maidenhood  —  and  dowered  more  than 
it  had  told,  as  all  the  beauty  of  the  opening  bud  scarcely 
can  hint  the  opened  blossom's  beauty ;  and  dowered  more 
than  it  had  told  by  the  increasing  strangeness,  as  she  grew, 
of  this  rare  perfection  of  each  feature  in  one  face.  Rare, 
strangely  rare,  the  transparent  fairness  of  her  skin; 
rare,  rare  that  almost  crimson  shade  on  either  cheek, 
sharply  defined,  not  blended,  as  it  were  frozen  there ; 
rare  the  dark  pansy  of  her  wide  and  stilly  eyes;  rare, 
most  rare  of  all,  transcending  all,  the  high  air  with  which 
she  bore  herself  —  that  her  chaste  and  faultless  face  main- 
tained, with  which  her  eyes  looked  and  that  her  presence 
seemed  to  make. 

He  saw  her  dress.  He  saw  her  scarf  to  be  some  filmy 
veil  about  her  shoulders  and  that  beneath  it  all  her  throat 
was  bare.  He  saw  that  it  was  turned  about  her  throat 
in  a  loose  fold  that  lay  where  her  bosom  was  disclosed 
by  the  silk  evening  gown  she  wore,  draped  low, 
but  maidenly  discreet.  At  throat,  at  breast,  at  arms, 
at  hands,  he  saw  this  filmy  thing  was  challenged  of  its 
whiteness  and  seemed  to  take  a  shade. 

She  moved ;  he  thought  to  speak.  Mystery  was  here 
and  held  him  on  its  threshold. 

Watching  her  he  had  a  sudden  new  conception  of  her 
quality.  Later,  when  he  had  spoken  to  her,  when  he  had 
left  her,  when  he  trod  again  each  passage  of  their  meeting, 


WITH  DORA  IN  THE  DRIVE  271 

recalled  her  voice,  her  mode  of  speech,  and  how  she  bore 
herself,  he  recalled  that  conception  and  knew  it  was  most 
proper  to  her,  and  thrilled  to  know  it  so. 

As  he  looked,  and  afterwards  as  he  remembered,  he 
conceived  the  word  that  estimated  all  her  beauty,  all  her 
quality  and  her  degree  —  frozen.  Frozen  and  thus  in- 
vested with  the  strange  rareness  that  frozen  beauty  has. 
Frozen  and  thus  most  proper  that  those  flames  upon  her 
cheeks  ne-v^er  could  stain  beyond  themselves,  as  blood 
that  will  not  run  in  snow:  proper  the  quaint  precision 
of  the  words  she  used,  as  icicles  broken  in  a  cold  hand  ; 
proper  the  high  pitch  of  her  voice,  curiously  hard,  with- 
out modulations,  as  winter  sounds  are  hard. 

Snow-White-and-Rose-Red  —  and  frozen  snow  and 
frozen  red.  She  wa::  that  in  his  new  discovery  of  her  : 
and  was  that  better  than  he  knew;  caparisoned  and 
trained  for  that. 

Ill 

She  raised  to  her  face  the  pansies  he  had  seen  her 
gather,  caressed  them  a  moment  against  her  lips,  then 
turned  and  went  a  few  steps  back.  And  then  he  spoke 
—  stepped  from  the  pillar's  shadow  and  into  mystery's 
doors  and  called  her  —  "Dora!" 

The  little  breezes  ran  among  the  flowers:  "Bend! 
Bend  !  you  sleepy  things  and  blow  her  your  caresses 
where  she  moves  again  !"  —  ran  among  the  tree- tops  high 
above  the  borders :  "Salute  !  Salute  I  you  sentinels,  and 
show  your  joy,  she  comes  !"  —  chased  from  her  path  a 
daring  leaf  or  two  —  sprung  to  her  person  and  bade  her 
veil  attend  her  —  caught  his  low  whisper  and  tossed  it 
from  her  ears. 

Tiny  the  stir;   yet  stiller  all  the  voice  he  made.     He 


272  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

waited ;  breathed  her  name  again  —  "Dora  !"  and  then 
she  heard. 

She  gave  the  faintest  start;  turned,  and  said,  "Why 
—  Percival?"  and  then  a  Httle  laugh,  and  then  spoke 
"Percival !"  again. 

He  went  to  her.     "Did  I  frighten  you?     I'm  sorry." 

He  went  into  the  mystery  that  barred  him  at  the  gate. 
Her  surprise  caused  the  shades  upon  her  cheeks  to  flame 
to  sudden  crimson,  promoting  her  beauty  to  its  most 
high  effect.  Her  lips  —  also  of  her  surprise  —  were 
lightly  parted,  alert,  with  the  aspect  of  some  nymph  of 
the  woods  and  glades,  startled  and  poised  to  Hsten.  Not 
yet,  not  yet  his  to  know  all  the  truth  of  what  influence 
had  him  here.  He  only  had  known  he  wished  to  see  her  : 
he  only  knew  now  that  he  wished  to  stay  and  talk  with 
her.  He  was  in  the  mystery  —  not  yet  of  it ;  but  al- 
ready, at  this  first  contact  with  her  presence,  a  glimmer- 
ing, a  suspicion  arose  —  softened  his  voice,  quickened 
his  senses. 

"I  ought  to  have  been  frightened,"  she  said.  "1 
never  heard  you  come.  But  I  scarcely  was  startled. 
It  is  the  most  curious  circumstance,  but  I  happened  to  be 
thinking  of  you." 

As  icicles  broken  in  a  cold  hand ! 

He  did  not  cry,  as  love  might  have  directed  him  — 
"Thinking  of  me  !  You  !"  Not  yet,  not  yet  the  knowl- 
edge that  would  give  that  ardour.  He  only  was  boy- 
ishly pleased.  He  only  said:  "Were  you,  Dora?  I'm 
awfully  glad  you  were." 

And  she,  no  more  aware  of  deeper  things  than  he : 
"Well,  they  were  not  particularly  nice  thoughts  I  had  of 
you,"  she  said,  and  gave  a  Httle  laugh  that  toned  with  the 
clear  pitch  of  her  voice.  "Indeed,  I  was  vexed  with 
you." 


WITH  DORA  IN  THE  DRIVE  273 

He  laughed  back  an  easy  laugh  :  "I  wonder  what  I've 
done?" 

*'It  is  what  you  have  not  done,  Percival  —  or  did  not 
do.  I  was  at  the  Manor  all  the  afternoon  and  had  the 
dullest  time  that  anybody  could  imagine.  Your  fault. 
Rollo  was  expecting  you  to  tea,  and  was  looking  out  for 
you  all  the  time,  and  was  the  most  ungracious  person. 
To  me,  you  know,  it  is  ridiculous  how  he  seems  to  dote 
upon  you." 

And  Percival  laughed  brightly  again.  Happy,  happy 
to  be  with  her  —  alone,  alone  at  this  hour,  in  this  still 
place!  "Old  Rollo!"  he  laughed.  "Well,  anyway,  if 
I  failed  him,  I've  seen  you." 

She  asked  him,  "But  why  have  you  come  —  so  late  ?" 
and  at  that  his  laughter  left  him. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  why," 
and  paused. 

He  did  not  know ;  but  in  declaring  it  to  her,  and  in 
that  pause,  came  a  step  nearer  discovery.  Some  name- 
less reason  held  his  speech,  and,  while  she  waited,  fluttered 
in  his  eyes  and  communicated  its  influence  to  her  also. 
In  that  pause  suspicion  came  to  both  of  some  strange 
element  that  trembled  in  the  air  —  fugitive,  remote,  but 
causing  its  presence  to  be  known  as  a  scent  declares  itself 
upon  the  breeze.  She  saw  a  tinge  of  redness  kindle  in 
his  face.  He  saw  the  faintest  trace  of  deepening  colour  in 
the  shades  upon  her  cheeks. 

Not  yet,  not  yet  the  truth  !  Transient  the  spell  and 
quickly  gone.  Only,  a  httle  shaken  by  it,  "You're 
going  away  soon,  Dora,"  he  said.  "I  think  that's  why 
I  came." 

Free  of  it:  "But  that's  not  a  reason,"  she  answered 
him  hghtly.  "I  am  not  going  so  suddenly  —  not  till 
the  end  of  the  week." 


274  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Saturday  —  it's  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Ah,  well,  time  goes  so  slowly  here." 

"Dull  for  you  —  I  can  imagine  that.  To  this  French 
school,  are  you  going,  Dora  ?  I  heard  you  telling  Lady 
Burdon  of  it." 

"It's  not  a  school.  No  more  school  for  me,  and  I  am 
very  thankful." 

"Tell  me  what  you  do  there." 

She  went  into  a  sudden  break  of  laughter.  She  had 
somewhere  picked  up  a  single  vulgar  phrase  that  con- 
sorted most  strangely  with  her  precise  manner  of  speech. 
"Your  coming  here  like  this,"  she  laughed,  "and  asking 
such  very  funny  things!"  —  then  used  her  phrase  — 
"it  tickles  me  to  death." 

The  piquancy  of  it  dehghted  him,  and  he  laughed 
delightedly,  and  for  some  reason  had  a  stronger  sense  of 
her  rare  beauty.  Not  yet,  not  yet  the  truth,  but  nearer 
yet,  even  as  such  truth  advances  by  the  strangest  and 
most  secret  steps. 

"Tell  me,  though,  Dora!" 

"Oh,  how  it  can  interest  you  I  am  puzzled  to  imagine  ! 
Pleasant  enough  things,  then.  There  are  twelve  of  us 
there,  all  English,  I  am  glad  to  say.  We  never  speak 
English,  though — always  French ;  and  then  there  are  Ger- 
man and  Italian  days  ;  they  make  us  laugh  very  much." 

As  icicles  broken  in  the  hand  ! 

Her  laughter  had  caused  the  shades  on  her  cheek  to 
glow.  He  gazed  at  her  in  sheerest  admiration ;  felt  a 
new  stirring  of  his  blood ;  felt  his  breath  quicken.  She 
was  close,  close  to  him.  The  little  breezes  that  had 
ittended  her,  and  had  gone  as  if  asulk  at  his  intrusion, 
came  with  a  sudden  little  fury  to  win  her  back  again,  and 
>mote  him  full  with  all  the  fragrance  that  she  had,  and 
tossed  her  scarf  and  tossed  her  skirt  against  him. 


WITH   DOR.\  IN  THE   DRIVE  275 

She  drew  back  her  skirt,  using  the  hand  that  held  the 
pansies  she  had  gathered.  The  action  brushed  his  hand 
with  hers  and  with  her  flowers. 

Not  yet,  not  yet  the  truth,  but  almost  come  !  He 
slipped  his  fingers  about  her  wrist,  holding  her  hand  mid- 
breast  between  them.     "Give  me  those  flowers,  Dora." 

She  slower  in  approaching  it,  but  suspicious  again  of 
some  strange  element  in  the  air,  as  a  fawn  that  lifts  a 
doubtful  head  to  question  a  new  thing  in  the  breeze. 
"You  have  one  buttonhole  already,"  she  told  him,  her 
voice  not  very  easy. 

He  looked  down  at  Ima's  wild  rose  in  his  coat.  "  That's 
nothing,"  he  said,  and  began  to  remove  it  whence  it  was 
pinned. 

He  was  clumsy,  for  his  hand  trembled  —  the  other 
still  had  hers.  He  was  clumsy.  Thoughts,  thoughts, 
were  at  hammer  in  his  brain  —  new  to  him,  fierce  to 
him  and,  as  from  iron  in  a  forge,  striking  a  glow  that 
glowed  within  his  eyes. 

She  saw  the  glow,  saw  how  his  hand  shook.  "It  is 
well  fastened,"  she  said. 

He  broke  off  the  rose  at  its  head,  jerked  it  aside  and 
drew  down  the  stalk.  She  suffered  him  to  take  her 
flowers,  and  very  carefully  then  he  placed  them  where  the 
rose  had  been  —  hers  !  hers  !  That  she  had  plucked  ! 
That  she  had  held  !  He  was  at  the  truth  and  he  looked 
at  her. 

She  almost  there. 

The  glow  in  his  eyes  was  turned  full  upon  her  and  she 
stepped  back  from  it.  The  secret  thing  the  night  had 
was  full  about  her  and  she  had  alarm  of  it.  "I  find  it 
rather  chilly  standing  here,"  she  said,  "  —  and  late.  I 
must  be  going  in." 

He  watched  her  take  the  veil  about  her  shoulders 


276  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

another  turn  about  her  throat,  and  watched  her  move 
away  a  pace.  He  started  after  her  as  though  he  burst 
through  bonds  that  held  him.  He  walked  beside  her, 
moving  his  tongue  in  his  mouth  as  though  it  were  locked 
from  words  and  sought  them;  and  he  could  hear  his 
heart  knock. 

So,  without  words  —  in  silence  that  shouted  louder 
than  speech  —  they  came  to  where  the  drive  bent  to- 
wards the  house.     She  paused,  and  he  knew  his  dismissal. 

His  face  was  red,  as  a  child  reddens  when  control  of 
tears  is  on  the  edge  of  breaking.  His  voice,  when  he 
spoke,  had  a  strained  note  as  the  voice  is  caused  to  strain 
when  only  one  thought  can  be  spoken  and  a  hundred 
press  for  speech.  And  strange  —  as  between  them  — 
the  words  at  last  he  found  :  "Dora,  you'd  hate  a  man  — 
wouldn't  you  ?  —  with  nothing  —  who  just  poked  along 
and  did  nothing  ?  " 

It  was  the  door  that  should  introduce  her  to  the  knowl- 
edge wherein  he  struggled.  But  she  was  only  surprised, 
not  recognising  it;  and  surprised,  relieved  indeed. 
"  Any  one  would,"  she  said. 

He  flung  wide  the  door.  "Ah !  Do  you  suppose  I 
am  going  to?" 

IV 

Love  is  an  instinct  and  is  played  by  instinct.  Strug- 
gling in  the  knowledge,  in  the  mystery,  that  had  drawn 
him  here  and  that  now  engulfed  him,  he  scarcely  yet 
was  aware  that  he  loved,  but  by  instinct  was  put  in 
command  of  all  the  cunning  of  the  game.  His  question 
fronted  her  with  personal  issue  between  them;  it  is 
the  first,  the  last,  the  essential  strategy. 

"Why,  Percival!"  she  said  and  stopped  —  saw  the 
door  wide;    and  he  saw  the  colour  deepen  where  her 


WITH  DORA  IN  THE  DRIVE  277 

colour  lay.  "Why,  Percival,  why  ever  should  I  suppose 
it  of  you  ?  '■ 

He  could  control  his  voice  no  more.  The  strained 
note  went.  He  said  thickly:  *'But  you'll  begin  to 
think  it.  In  time  you're  bound  to  —  if  I  let  you.  And 
then  scorn  me.  If  I  just  idled  here  you're  bound  to 
scorn  me.     Any  one  would  —  you  said  it," 

Nervous  her  breathing.  "But  you  —  you  never 
could  be  like  that,  Percival.  I've  always  thought  of 
you  as  doing  things.  Every  one  thinks  it.  I  have 
noticed  how  they  do." 

All  the  distress  he  had  suffered  earlier  in  the  day  was 
back  with  him  now,  joined  in  fiercest  tumult  with  what 
caused  his  heart  to  knock.  He  cried  "They  soon  won't ! " 
and  cried  it  on  a  bitter  note  that  made  her  go  an  unthink- 
ing step  towards  what  waited  her.  "Percival,  they 
always  will,"  she  said.     "I  always  will,  Percival." 

The  redness  went  from  his  face.  His  own  clear  voice 
came  back  to  him.  All,  all  his  being  braced  from  storm 
to  his  control.     He  breathed  "Dora!    Will  you?" 

The  stress  that  had  been  his  was  hers.  She  found  no 
words;  she  only  nodded  —  moved  her  lips  for  "yes" 
but  made  no  sound.  He  had  come  slowly  to  the  truth, 
by  blundering  ways  that  sometimes  brought  him  near 
and  sometimes  went  astray.  She  was  suddenly  come 
—  and  come,  not  of  herself,  but  of  as  it  were  a  flame 
that  his  voice  as  he  spoke,  his  ardour  as  he  bent  towards 
her,  seemed  to  communicate.  She  was  suddenly  come, 
was  a  degree  bewildered,  wanted  even  yet  some  further 
light.     She  only  nodded. 

"Dora,  you  are  going  for  a  long  time.  I  heard  you 
tell—" 

She  said  very  low :   "For  a  year." 

"Dora!    A  year!" 


278  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"I  am  to  be  a  year  away.  It  is  the  last  time.  It  is 
to  finish." 

"  A  year  !     A  year  !     Oh,  Dora,  a  year  !  " 

Her  face  was  close  to  his,  her  Ups  a  shade  apart,  her 
wide  eyes  lifted  to  him.  Rare,  rare  he  had  thought 
her ;  perfect  he  knew  her.  That  mystic  thing  the  night 
had  held,  held  them  mute,  magnetised,  privy  from 
all  the  world,  alone.  They  stood  so  close  the  air  he 
drew  had  first  caressed  her.  They  stood  so  close  that 
her  young  bosom  almost  told  him  how  she  breathed. 
Slowly,  as  he  were  drawn  to  it,  he  stooped  towards  her ; 
steadily,  as  she  were  held,  she  suffered  his  face  to  ap- 
proach. Their  lips  touched,  stayed  for  a  space — smaller, 
infinitely  less,  than  mind  can  conceive ;  wider,  immeas- 
urably more,  as  their  joined  spirits  reckoned  time,  and 
rushed  through  time  in  bliss  of  ecstasy,  than  mind  can 
reckon  space. 

And  then  he  kissed  her. 

Crimson  she  flamed  in  the  places  of  her  colour  — 
flaming  and  more  flaming  and  deeper  yet  their  flame. 
Their  sharp  hmitations  drove  her  driven  white  about 
them;  from  throat  to  flame  and  flame  to  brow  as  lily 
was  her  hue.  She  did  not  move  nor  speak,  and  he,  amazed 
before  her  rareness,  drew  back  a  step.  She  might  have 
been  a  statue,  so  still  she  stood.  She  might  not  have 
breathed,  nor  thought,  so  motionless  her  breast,  her  eyes 
so  wide,  so  still  her  gaze.  Only  that  glowing  scarlet 
on  her  cheeks,  only  her  skin's  transparency  —  soft, 
deep,  as  if  beneath  it  some  jewel  gave  a  secret  Hght  — 
declared  her  mortal  and  proclaimed  she  Hved. 

A  space  passed.  She  came  from  the  trance  in  which 
she  seemed  to  be.  She  gave  a  flttle  sigh.  As  if  she  had 
been  struck,  not  kissed ;  as  if  she  had  been  robbed,  not 
possessed.     "Oh  !  Percival !"  she  said. 


WITH  DORA  IN  THE  DRIVE  279 

And  he:  "Oh!  Dora!" 

He  sprung  to  her,  took  both  her  hands ;  clasped  them 
in  his  and  adored  her  with  his  eyes;  bent  his  head  to 
them  and  raised  them  to  his  lips. 

"Oh,  Dora,  have  I  hurt  you?  Oh,  Dora,  I  love  you 
so!" 

"Let  me  go  in,  Percival  1" 

He  held  her  hands  against  his  breast.  "I  could  not 
help  it !  I  could  not  help  it !  I  love  you,  Dora  !  I've 
always  loved  you  !  I  suddenly  knew  I'd  always  loved 
you!" 

She  spoke  so  low  he  scarcely  could  hear  her  voice: 
"Percival,  let  me  go  in  !" 

"Oh,  Dora,  have  I  hurt  you?  Dear,  dear  Dora,  you 
are  all  the  world  to  me.     I  love  you  so,  I  love  you  so  ! " 

The  faintest  movement  of  her  head  gave  him  his 
answer  and  gave  him  ecstasy. 

"I  have  not  hurt  you  ?    You  are  not  angry  ?    I  knew 

—  or  I  would  not  have  kissed  you.  Speak  to  me,  dear 
Dora." 

She  only  whispered  :  "Percival,  I  would  like  to  go  in. 
I  am  afraid." 

He  cried:  "I  know.  You  are  so  beautiful  —  so 
beautiful;  not  meant  for  me  to  love  you." 

"You  are  hurting  my  hands,  Percival." 

He  kissed  her  hands  again  —  fragile  and  white  and 
cold  and  scented,  like  crushed,  cold  flowers  in  his  grasp. 
He  told  her:  "From  the  very  first  I  loved  you  —  but 
could  not  know  it  then.  From  that  day  when  I  first 
saw  you  !     Look  how  I  must  have  been  born  to  love  you 

—  you'll  not  be  frightened  then.  Snow-White-and-Rose- 
Red  I  called  you.  Smile,  darling  Dora,  as  you  smiled 
when  I  told  you  in  the  muddy  lane  that  day.  Do  you 
remember?" 


28o  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

She  had  no  smile :  still  seemed  aswoon,  still  scarcely 
breathed,  as  some  bewdldered  dove  —  captured,  past 
fluttering  —  which  only  quivers  in  the  hands  that  hold 
it. 

"If  only  you  can  sometimes  think  of  me.  You  wdll 
understand  then  and  think  again  perhaps,  and  know  all 
my  life  is  changed,  and  know  that  everything  I  do  I  shall 
do  for  you.  I'll  not  see  you  again.  I'll  not  be  here 
when  you  come  back." 

At  that  he  felt  her  fingers  move  within  his  hands. 

"I  cannot  stay  here  now  —  now  that  I  love  you.  I 
shall  go." 

He  felt  her  tremble,  and  she  breathed:  ''Oh,  why? 
Oh,  where?" 

"How  could  I  face  you  again  and  still  be  idling  here  ? 
I  don't  know  where,  Dora.  I  only  know  why  —  be- 
cause I  love  you  so.  Anywhere,  anything  to  get  me 
something  that  will  give  you  to  me  !" 

She  whispered  "Percival!"  and  stopped  as  though 
she  had  not  strength  for  more.  And  he  breathed 
"Dora  I"  as  though  he  knew  what  she  would  say  and 
by  intensity  of  love  would  draw  it  from  her. 

She  slowly  drew  her  hands  from  his.  She  took  them 
to  her  breast,  and  faltered  again  —  again  as  she  were 
wounded,  afraid,  struck,  threatened,  atremble  at  some 
fearful  brink,  robbed  of  some  vital  virtue:  "Oh,  Per- 
cival !"  and  caught  her  breath  and  said  "Oh,  Percival, 
what  is  it  —  this?" 

"It  is  love  !"  he  cried.     "Dora,  it  is  love  !" 

She  gave  a  little  sigh ;  she  unclasped  her  hands ; 
seemed  to  relax  in  all  her  spirit ;  suffered  her  hands,  like 
cold  white  flowers  floating  earthwards,  lovewards  to 
float  to  his. 

"Tell  me!"  he  breathed. 


WITH  DORA  IN   THE   DRIVE  281 

Soft  as  her  hands  fell,  "I  always  shall  think  of  you," 
she  told  him. 

He  besought  her  ''Tell  me!" 

She  whispered  "Always  !" 

In  a  man's  voice,  out  of  a  sudden  and  terrible  review 
of  his  condition  —  possessed  of  nothing,  chained  to  do 
nothing  —  and  of  her  high  estate:  "Others  will  love 
you  !"  he  cried. 

As  they  would  nestle  there  and  there  abide,  her  fingers 
moved  within  his  hands. 

In  a  man's  voice,  full  man  as  full  love  makes,  "Tell 
me,"  he  besought  her. 

Scarcely  perceptible  her  answer  came;  scarcely  her 
lips  moved  for  it  —  faint  as  the  timid  breeze  ventured 
to  the  innermost  thicket,  soft  as  the  hushed  caress  of 
summer  rain  along  the  hedgerows,  "I  shall  always  love 
you,"  she  breathed. 

Shortly  he  left  her. 


CHAPTER   IX 

WITH  AUNT  MAGGIE   IN  FAREWELL 


It  was  past  eleven  when  Percival  got  back  to  "Post 
Offic."  He  had  been  absent  seven  hours.  He  felt  him- 
self removed  by  thrice  as  many  years  from  the  moment 
when  he  had  flung  away  from  Aunt  Maggie  to  work  off 
by  active  exercise  the  feelings  aroused  in  him  when,  to 
his  demands  that  he  must  be  doing  something  with  his 
life,  she  had  prayed  him  only  wait. 

Day  then,  night  now,  and  he  as  changed. 

The  mood  he  brought  her  was  unlike  any  he  had  pro- 
posed should  be  his  case.  On  Plowman's  Ridge  before 
he  saw  Japhra  he  had  imagined  for  his  return  a  petulant, 
a  trying-to-be-cahn  scene  in  which  he  should  repeat  his 
purpose  that  an  end  must  be  made  of  the  purposeless  way 
of  hfe  in  which  she  was  keeping  him.  By  Fir-Tree  Pool, 
with  wise  Japhra  propounding  how  a  man  must  encourage 
his  spirit  and  defeat  his  flesh,  he  had  imagined  himself 
gentle  with  dear  Aunt  Maggie ;  gently  showing  her  what 
restlessness  had  him,  persuading  her  to  his  ends,  or,  of  his 
love  for  her,  accepting  her  wishes.  Now  he  was  come 
back  and  neither  case  was  his.  Day  then,  night  now,  and 
he  as  changed.  Now  he  had  lived  that  hour  with  Dora 
in  the  drive ;  now  he  had  kissed  her ;  now  had  heard  her 
breathe  "I  shall  always  love  you."  Gone  every  thought 
of  petulant  distress ;  gone  Japhra's  counsels  —  gone 
boyhood,  manhood  come ! 

282 


WITH  AUNT  MAGGIE  IN  FAREWELL    283 

The  change  was  stamped  upon  his  face,  figured  in  his 
air.  Aunt  Maggie  looked  up  eagerly  as  he  entered. 
She  had  waited  him  anxiously.  He  stood  a  moment  on 
the  threshold  of  the  room  and  looked  at  her  with  steady, 
reckoning  eyes.  She  saw;  and  she  greeted  him  fear- 
fully. ''Why,  Percival,  dear,  how  very  late  you  are," 
she  said. 

He  repHed:  "It  took  me  longer  to  get  back  than  I 
expected." 

His  tone  matched  his  aspect  and  the  look  in  his  eyes. 
Aunt  Maggie's  voice  trembled  a  little:  "You  must 
have  been  a  long  way,  dear?" 

"A  good  many  miles,"  he  said,  and  came  forward  and 
went  to  his  place  at  the  table  where  supper  was  laid,  and 
sat  down. 

"Are  you  very  tired,  dear  ?  —  you  look  tired." 

"No  —  no,  thank  you.  Aunt  Maggie." 

His  voice  was  absent  —  or  stern ;  and  absently  —  or 
sternly  —  he  looked  at  her  across  the  table. 

She  caught  her  breath  and  hesitated,  and  began  pa- 
thetically to  try  by  brightness  to  rally  him  from  his 
mood. 

"At  least  you  must  be  terribly  hungry,"  she  smiled. 
"Here  comes  Honor  with  just  what  you  like." 

A  tray  tanged  against  the  door,  and  was  borne  in  by 
Honor,  uncommonly  grim  of  the  face. 

"Now  wasn't  that  clever  of  Honor!"  Aunt  Maggie 
went  on.  "Five  minutes  ago  —  after  waiting  since 
seven  —  she  said  she  knew  you  would  be  just  in  time 
if  she  began  to  cook  the  trout  then ;  and  here  it  is  ready, 
and  most  delicious,  I'm  sure,  just  as  you  arrive." 

Honor's  actual  words  had  been :  "Time  and  tide  wait 
for  no  dangerous  delays.  Miss  Oxford,  and  I  don't 
neither  —  not  a  single  instant  longer.     I'll  put   these 


284  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

troutses  on  now  which  ought  to  have  been  on  at  ten 
minutes  to  seven,  and  I'll  cook  'em,  and  cook  'em  and 
cook  'em  till  I  drop  fainting  on  my  own  kitchen  carpet 
and  till  they're  nasty  black  cinders  that  will  serve  him 
right.  Lost  his  way !  lost  his  nasty  bold  temper ! 
It's  no  good  talking  different  to  me.  Miss,  not  if  your 
voice  was  tinkling  trumpets,  it  isn't !"  She  had  burst  in 
with  her  tray  prepared  to  repeat  her  wrath  to  Percival's 
face,  but  caught  the  appeaHng  look  in  Aunt  Maggie's 
eyes,  perceived  that  something  was  seriously  amiss  with 
Percival,  and  exchanged  her  heat  for  the  affection  he 
had  won  in  her  from  the  first  moment,  years  before,  of 
his  arrival  —  the  sweetest  bundle  of  shawls  —  at  "Post 
Offic." 

"Cooked  to  a  turn,  Master  Percival, dear,"  Honor  said, 
uncovering  before  him  the  steaming  dish. 

"And  only  just  caught,"  Aunt  Maggie  smiled.  "  Rollo 
brought  them  in  just  before  supper  time." 

And  Honor:  "And  want  it  you  do,  as  I  can  see. 
Nasty  pinched  look  you've  got.  Master  Percival." 

And  Aunt  Maggie:  "And  look  at  that  beer,  dear. 
You'd  scarcely  think  it  was  a  new  cask,  would  you? 
As  clear  as  crystal." 

And  Honor:  "Ah,  'Pitch  that  cask  about,'  I  says  to 
the  man  when  he  delivered  it.  'Pitch  that  cask  about, 
my  beauty,  and  you  can  pitch  it  back  into  your  waggin', 
I  says.  'Young  master  don't  want  to  eat  his  beer  with 
a  knife  and  fork,  not  if  you  do,'  I  says  sharp." 

And  Aunt  Maggie:  "You  see  what  care  we  take  of 
you,  Percival,  although  you  leave  us  all  day  long." 

And  Honor:  "And  now  I'll  just  get  your  slippers 
down  for  you.  Nothing  like  slippers  when  you're 
tired.     And  then  you'll  be  to  rights." 


WITH  AUNT  MAGGIE  IN  FAREWELL    285 

n 

So  these  fond  women,  perceiving  him  amiss,  strove,  as 
women  will,  to  heal  him  with  their  sympathy ;  and  reck- 
oned nothing  —  as  is  woman's  part  —  that  he  nothing 
responded  to  their  gentleness  nor  anything  abated  his 
set  and  brooding  air.  The  world  may  be  chased  up  and 
down  to  find  men  conspired  to  soothe  a  woman's  brow 
and  scarcely  will  disclose  a  single  case.  Men  weary  or 
wax  impatient  of  such  a  task.  But  every  household  at 
some  time  shows  women  gently  engaged  against  a  bear- 
ish man.  It  is  the  woman's  part  —  womanly  as  we  say. 
using  a  rare  word  for  a  beautiful  virtue. 

At  another  time  —  in  the  days  before  that  evening's 
magic,  in  the  life  that  preceded  his  present  only  by 
that  hour  in  the  drive  with  Dora  —  Percival  had  long 
been  won  from  moodiness  by  their  solicitude  for  him. 
Not  now  !  Those  days  were  only  a  single  hour  gone ; 
its  events  sundered  them  from  the  present  by  an  abyss 
that  had  a  lifetime's  depth,  a  lifetime's  breadth  from 
marge  to  marge.  New  feelings  were  his  and  they  en- 
veloped him  against  old  appeals  as  a  suit  of  mail  against 
arrows.  New  prospects  held  his  eyes  and  they  blotted 
out  homelier  visions  as  the  changed  scene  of  a  play  is 
dropped  across  an  earlier  background.  He  was  not  pre- 
occupied and  therefore  unaware  of  the  loving  sentences 
addressed  to  him.  His  case  was  this  —  that  he  was  a 
new  man,  and  as  a  stranger,  therefore,  listening  to  afifec- 
tions  that  did  not  concern  him.  That  he  found  himself 
insensible  to  their  appeal  was  not  that  he  loved  Aunt 
Maggie  less  or  had  suffered  abatement  of  the  affection 
he  had  for  hot-tongued,  warm-hearted  Honor.  None  of 
these.  It  was  this  only  —  that  he  loved  another  more ; 
this  only  —  that  the  fires  of  his  love  had  sprung  out  in  a 


286  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

new  place  and  there  burned  with  heat  infinitely  more 
fierce  than  the  flame  where  formerly  his  affections  had 
warmed  their  hands. 

Ill 

Such  of  his  meal  as  he  required  —  and  that  was 
what  habit,  not  appetite,  demanded  —  he  ate  in  silence. 
To  silence  also  Aunt  Maggie  went,  shortly  after  Honor 
had  left  them.  She  attempted  once  or  twice  to  continue 
to  persuade  him  from  his  mood  —  protested  that  he  was 
eating  nothing ;  sought  to  rally  him  with  Httle  scraps 
of  gossip,  with  questions  touching  his  afternoon.  Of  no 
avail.  Presently  she  clasped  her  hands  together  on 
the  table  before  him,  and  only  watched  him,  and  only 
sought  to  discover  from  his  face  what  thing  it  was  his 
face  betided,  and  only  felt  her  fears  increase. 

When  he  was  done  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and  she 
dropped  her  eyes,  for  his  were  now  upon  her  and  had 
the  steady,  reckoning  look  she  had  observed  —  and 
feared  —  when  he  regarded  her  for  that  moment  at 
his  entrance.  She  could  not  endure  the  feeling  that 
he  watched  her,  and  watched  her  so.  "You  will  go 
to  bed  soon,  Percival,"  she  said.  "You  do  look  so 
tired." 

He  replied:  "I  am  not  tired.  I  have  something  to 
ask  you  first,  Aunt  Maggie ; "  and  after  a  pause  he  went 
on :  "Aunt  Maggie,  I  was  telling  you  this  afternoon  that 
I  thought  I  ought  to  be  doing  something.  Well,  more 
than  that  I  thought  I  ought  to  be  doing  something, 
and  more  than  merely  telling  you  —  because  I  know  I 
was  in  a  great  state  about  it  and  went  off  in  a  great 
state." 

She  answered,  "Yes,  Perdval?" 


(< 


WITH  AUNT  MAGGIE  IN  FAREWELL    287 

"You  said  there  was  plenty  of  time  for  that." 

"Yes,  Percival." 

"There  isn't,  Aunt  Maggie."  And  he  went  on  quickly : 
there  isn't  plenty  of  time  to  think  about  what  I  am 
going  to  do.  I  am  not  a  boy  any  longer.  Even  if  I 
started  to-morrow  I  should  be  starting  late.  Every  one 
at  my  age  is  doing  something." 

His  tone  was  firm  and  quiet  but  was  kind.  She  said 
that  which  made  it  take  a  harder  note. 

"Percival,  you  need  only  wait,"  she  said,  "till  you 
are  twenty-one." 

She  saw  his  face  darken  in  a  change  as  swift  and  chill 
as  sudden  shadow  along  the  sea.  "Oh,  that !"  he  cried. 
"That!  I  don't  want  to  hear  that  any  more  or  ever 
again  !     Is  that  all  you  have  for  me  ?  " 

She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands  on  the  table  be- 
fore her.  He  waited  several  moments  for  her  answer. 
Then  he  said :  "And  what  am  I  to  do  till  then?" 

She  told  him :  "Only  wait  with  me,  Percival." 

He  said  very  quietly:  "No,  I  will  not  wait.  I  will 
not  stay  with  you.     I  am  going  away." 

The  stress  that  each  suffered  was  broken  out  of  them 
by  his  announcement.  The  thought  of  losing  him,  the 
thought  of  how  a  word,  revealing  her  secret,  would  keep 
him,  broke  from  her  in  her  cry:  "No,  no,  Percival! 
Oh,  Percival,  no!" 

Her  sudden  voice  and  its  anguish  smote  him  to  his 
depths  in  his  own  stress  as  a  sudden  cry  in  the  night  that 
shocks  the  heart.  He  uttered  in  a  voice  she  had  never 
heard  —  most  hoarse,  most  atremble :  "Oh,  under- 
stand !  For  pity's  sake  try  to  understand.  I  am  so 
that  I  will  never  sleep  again  —  never  again  till  I  have 
earned  my  sleep.     Oh,  understand  that  I  am  a  man  !" 

She  saw  his  dear  face,  his  handsome  face,  h\3  face 


288  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

that  she  loved  so  and  was  to  lose  unless  she  spoke,  all 
twisted  up  as  though  he  writhed  in  pain.  She  cried : 
"Percival,  don't  look  hke  that.  I  can  keep  you.  I 
cannot  let  you  go." 

He  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that  told  his  anguish  of 
this  scene  and  of  his  spirit.  "  You  cannot  keep  me," 
he  said.     "  I  am  going." 

She  breathed  :  "  By  telling  you  I  can  keep  you." 

He  said:   *' Tell  me,  then." 

She  began,  her  tongue  heavy  as  a  key  is  rusty  that  is 
to  turn  in  a  lock  closed  eighteen  years;  "Rollo  — "  she 
began,  and  stopped. 

He  had  for  a  moment  believed  that  she  intended  to 
tell  him  this  matter  affecting  his  future  that  he  knew 
must  be  delusion  —  some  wonderful  plan,  as  wonderful 
as  impossible,  such  as  a  woman  leading  Aunt  Maggie's 
retired  life  might  have  —  whose  delusion,  having  it 
before  him,  he  could  at  last  show  her.  But  at  her 
"Rollo,"  disappointed,  he  broke  out,  "Oh,  what  has  old 
Rollo  todo  withit?" 

Her  voice  was  making  a  stumbHng  effort  to  hold  on  at 
turning  the  key.  But  his  "Old  Rollo"  caused  her  to 
halt,  afraid,  as  one  turning  a  key  in  very  fact  might  halt 
and  draw  back  at  a  footstep. 

He  saw  her  face  go  grey  with  the  hue  of  ashes.  "Aunt 
Maggie  !"  he  cried,  and  got  up  quickly  and  went  to  her. 
"  I  don't  mean  to  be  unkind.  I  must  go.  I  cannot  stay. 
But  I'm  not  going  angry  —  not  running  away.  I  love 
you  —  love  you,  you  know  how  I  love  you.  Just  think 
of  it  as  going  on  a  visit.  It's  no  more  than  that.  I'm 
going  with  old  Japhra  —  that's  not  like  going,  being  with 
him,  is  it?" 

She  just  said:  "When,  dear?" 

"Darling,  in  the  morning.     At  daybreak." 


WITH  AUNT  MAGGIE  IN  FAREWELL    289 

IV 

She  began  to  cry,  and  clung  to  him.  But  it  was  more 
than  losing  him  had  made  that  ashy  hue  in  her  face  that 
had  wrung  his  heart.  It  was  reaHsation  of  a  sudden 
thing  that  menaced  her  revenge  —  a  thing  suddenly 
arisen  in  its  long,  long  path  whose  end  she  now  was  reach- 
ing. Thinking,  when  the  hour  came,  the  more  dread- 
fully to  strike  Lady  Burdon,  she  had  deliberately  made 
possible  and  had  encouraged  the  friendship  between 
Percival  and  RoUo.  Had  she  gone  too  far  ?  What 
when  she  told  Percival  and  he  saw  it  was  "Old  Rollo" 
he  was  to  displace,  "  Old  Rollo  "  upon  whom  he  was  to 
bring  disaster  —  what  if  —  ? 

She  dared  not  so  much  as  finish  that  question. 


CHAPTER  X 

WITH  EGBERT   IN   FREEDOM 


In  the  morning  when  he  came  early  to  her  room,  she 
was  easier  and  able  only  to  suffer  her  distress  at  losing 
him.  Thoughts  had  come  to  her,  helping  her;  and 
helping  her  the  more  in  that  they  were  of  a  part  with  the 
fataHsm  which  had  assured  her  at  Audrey's  death-bed 
that  nothing  could  go  wrong  in  her  scheme.  His  resolve 
to  go  away  was  surely,  she  thought,  fate's  contribution 
to  her  success.  Always  she  had  planned  for  twenty-one 
—  when  he  should  be  of  age,  and  quahfied  himself  to 
avenge  his  mother.  Last  night,  in  agony  at  losing  him, 
she  had  nearly  robbed  herself  of  that.  Fate,  in  guise 
of  her  panic  reaHsation  of  his  affection  for  Rollo,  had 
interfered  to  stop  her.  Last  night  she  had  thought 
it  insupportable  to  be  left  without  him.  While 
she  lay  sleepless  —  and  heard  her  darling  pacing  his 
floor  in  the  next  room  —  fate  had  again  encouraged 
her  heart  by  showing  her  that  this  was  well,  not  ill  — 
that  this  was  fate  working  for  her ;  well  that  he  should 
now,  in  the  last  period,  be  separated  from  Rollo. 

Thus  supported  she  was  saved  from  the  uttermost 
extremity  of  the  collapse  that  came  upon  her  when  fondly 
he  kissed  her  as  she  lay  in  bed,  left  her,  returned  to  press 
her  to  him  again.  —  "Think  of  it  as  a  visit.  Aunt  Maggie, 
only  that.  Just  a  visit  to  give  these  idle  whacking  great 
hands  something  to  do"  —  and  then  was  gone. 

290 


WITH    EGBERT  IN  FREEDOM  291 

One  or  two  —  up  thus  early  —  who  saw  him  go  by 
and  came  to  Aunt  Maggie  when  it  was  noised  that  he 
had  gone  away,  told  her  how  stern  he  looked  —  how 
strange.  Miss  Purdie,  early  in  her  garden,  had  noticed 
it.  "Oh,  Miss  Oxford,  if  I  had  know7i!  Oh,  to  think 
he  was  going  when  I  saw  him  !  Oh,  and  I  suspected 
something  was  wrong.  There  was  something  in  his  face 
I  had  never  seen  there  before.  I  thought  to  myself 
'Now  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  I  wonder?'  And  I 
stood  and  looked  after  him,  and  dropped  one  of  my  garden 
gloves  and  never  knew  I  had  lost  it  until  I  was  back  in 
the  house  and  found  I  had  only  one  to  take  off.  Oh,  when 
I  think  of  all  his  sweet  ways  and  his  handsome  face.  ..." 

II 

Stern  he  looked  and  strange,  and  stem  his  thoughts 
and  difficult.  His  plans  ran  to  coming  up  with  Japhra 
on  the  Dorchester  Road  and  joining  him.  Beyond  ?  — 
he  could  supply  nothing  beyond.  His  urgent  desire 
went  to  being  away  from  home,  and  for  his  own  respect 
and  for  his  mind's  ease  working  to  earn  his  food.  Be- 
yond ?  —  he  could  see  nothing  beyond.  His  thoughts 
and  all  his  heart  and  all  his  being  went  to  his  Dora,  to 
her  exquisite  beauty,  to  the  rapture  of  their  kiss,  to  the 
divine  ecstasy  of  her  whisper,  "I  shall  always  love  you;" 
beyond  ?  —  black,  black  beyond,  most  utter  black,  most 
utter  hopeless ;  emptiness  most  utter,  mock  most  shrill, 
most  sharp. 

He  laughed,  poor  boy;  and  "Fool!  Fool!"  cried, 
"abject  fool!"  He  groaned,  poor  boy,  and  "Dora! 
Dora!"  cried,  "oh!  Dora!"  He  set  his  teeth,  poor 
boy,  and  braced  his  strength ;  threw  up  his  chin  and 
clenched  a  fist,  and  "Somehow!  Somehow!"  cried, 
"Somehow!" 


292  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Most  to  be  pitied  then,  poor  boy,  as  old  friend  wind,  in 
whose  path  now  he  came,  knew  and  mocked,  or  might 
have  known  and  surely  mocked  —  buffeting  him  with 
"Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  tossing  his  "Somehow!  Somehow!" 
from  his  lips  and  chasing  it  and  tearing  it  as  old  friend 
wind  had  heard  resolves  and  mocked  and  tossed  and 
chased  and  torn  them  from  end  to  end  along  its  course 
since  mankind  first  resolving  came. 

But  he  was  helped  by  that  strong  "Somehow!"  as 
by  resolve  mankind  —  and  youth  the  most  of  all  —  is 
ever  helped.  More  stern,  not  less,  it  made  him,  but 
launched  a  shaft  of  light  into  the  darkness  of  that  Beyond 
—  showing  the  adventure,  not  the  desert  there ;  in- 
spiring him  that  somehow  stuff  was  to  be  found  there 
that  somehow  he  would  wrest  to  himself,  somehow 
shape  and  beat  to  win  him  fulfilment  of  all  his  hopes. 

Thus  he  was  in  brighter  mood  when  presently  he 
brought  the  white  riband  of  the  Dorchester  road  into 
view,  in  mood  bright  enough  to  laugh  when,  striking 
towards  the  spot  where  he  proposed  to  pick  up  the  van, 
he  saw  on  a  gate  there  a  lank  figure,  bundle  over  shoulder, 
that  suggested  to  him  it  could  be  no  one  but  Egbert 
Hunt.  He  laughed  —  then  had  a  tender  look  in  his  eyes, 
for  his  thoughts,  as  he  made  along  in  the  direction  of  gate 
and  figure,  went  to  Rollo. 

Ill 

On  his  way  home,  when  he  had  left  Dora  on  the 
previous  night,  he  had  called  in  at  Burdon  Old  Manor  to 
bid  Rollo  good-by.  Lady  Burdon  had  gone  to  bed. 
He  found  Rollo  in  the  billiard  room,  Egbert  Hunt  mark- 
ing for  him,  and  it  was  what  had  passed  between  them 
that  had  emphasised  the  endearment  in  his  tone  when  he 
had  said  "Old  Rollo"  to  Aunt  Maggie. 


WITH  EGBERT  IN  FREEDOM  293 

Tender  his  look  when  he  recalled  how  "Old  Rollo," 
hearing  he  was  going  away,  had  dropped  his  cue  and 
stared  at  him  in  blank  dismay,  then  questioned  him, 
and  then  had  hstened  with  twitching  mouth  when  he  had 
cried,  "Oh,  Rollo,  things  are  so  steep  for  me,  old  man. 
I  can't  explain.     I  must  get  out  of  this,  that's  all !" 

For  the  first  time  —  and  the  only  time  —  in  all  their 
friendship  it  had  been  Rollo's  to  play  the  supporter. 
"Why,  Percival,  dear,  dear  old  chap,"  he  had  cried, 
"don't  look  Hke  that.  For  God's  sake,  don't.  What- 
ever's  wrong  I  can  help  you.  We  are  absolute,  absolute 
pals.  No  one  ever  had  such  a  pal  as  you've  been  to  me  — 
now  it's  my  turn.  Stay  here  with  us  a  bit,  old  man. 
Yes,  that's  what  you'll  do.  Let's  fix  that,  old  man. 
That  will  make  everything  right.  Everything  I've  got  is 
yours  —  you  know  that,  don't  you,  old  man  ?" 

And  when  he  had  shaken  his  head  and  had  explained 
that  it  was  work  —  work  for  his  hands  he  wanted,  and 
was  going  to  find  with  Japhra,  Rollo  had  vented  his 
feelings  on  Egbert  Hunt  with  "What  the  devil  are  you 
standing  there  Hstening  for,  Hunt  ?  Get  out  of  this  ! 
Didn't  I  tell  you  to  go?  Get  out !"  And  when  they 
were  alone,  and  when  he  had  seen  that  Percival  was  not  to 
be  moved,  had  revealed  his  affection  in  last  words  that 
brought  a  dimness  to  Percival's  eyes  as  he  recalled 
them. 

"Men  don't  talk  about  these  things,"  Rollo  had  said, 
"so  I've  never  told  you  all  you  are  to  me  —  but  it's  a 
fact,  Percival,  that  I'm  never  really  happy  except  when 
I'm  with  you.  I've  been  like  that  ever  since  we  met, 
and  in  all  the  jolly  days  we've  had  together.  You  know 
the  sort  of  chap  I  am  —  quite  different  from  you.  I 
don't  get  on  with  other  people.  I've  always  hated  the 
idea  of  going  to  Cambridge  this  October  because  it  means 


294  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

mixing  with  men  I  shan't  like  and  leaving  you.  You're 
everything  to  me,  old  man.  It's  always  been  my  hope  — 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  now  you're  going  —  that  when  I 
settle  down,  after  I  come  of  age  —  you  know  what  I  mean 
—  it's  always  been  my  hope  that  we'll  be  able  to  fix  it  up 
together  somehow.  I  shall  have  business  and  things  to 
look  after  —  you  know  what  I  mean  —  that  you  can 
manage  a  damn  sight  better  than  I  can.  And  I'll  want 
some  one  to  look  after  me  —  the  kind  of  chap  I  am ;  a 
shy  ass,  and  deHcate.  And  you're  the  one,  the  only,  only 
one.    Just  remember  that,  won't  you,  old  man  ?  ..." 

IV 

Percival  was  aroused  from  his  warm  recollection  of  it 
by  the  figure  on  the  gate  hailing  him.  Egbert  Hunt  it 
was.  "Good  lord!"  Percival  cried.  "What  on  earth 
are  you  doing  here  —  this  time  in  the  morning  and  with 
that  bundle?" 

"  Coming  with  you,"  said  Hunt. 

"With  me  !     Do  you  know  where  I'm  going  ? " 

Egbert  Hunt  pointed  up  the  road  where  Japhra's  van 
came  plodding.  "In  that.  Heard  you  tell  Lord  Burdon 
last  night.  Heard  you  say  that  Mr.  Stingo's  crowd  was 
short  of  hands.     The  Hfe  for  me.     Fac'." 

Percival  stared  at  him  —  a  grown  man  now,  lanky, 
unhealthy,  white  of  face. 

"Does  Rollo  —  does  Lord  Burdon  know?  Did  he 
say  you  might  go  ?  " 

"Told  me  to  go  to  'ell." 

Percival  laughed.  "You'll  find  it  that  —  you  fright- 
ful ass." 

"I'll  be  free,"  said  Egbert  darkly.  "No  man's  slave 
I  won't  be  any  more.     Every  man's  as  good  as  the  next 


WITH   EGBERT   IN   FREEDOM  295 

where  you're  bound,  I  reckon.  No  more  tyrangs  for  me. 
You're  my  sort,  and  always  have  been." 

The  van  was  up  to  them  and  pulled  up  with  Japhra's 
surprised  hail  of  greeting.  Percival  went  to  him  where 
he  sat  on  the  forward  platform.  *'Japhra,  here's  a 
hand  for  one  of  your  crowd  —  a  friend  of  mine.  Is  there 
work  for  him?" 

Japhra  looked  at  Egbert  with  unveiled  behttlement. 
"There's  work  for  all  sorts,"  he  said  drily.  "  For  him 
perhaps.  Get  up  behind,"  he  addressed  Egbert,  "I'll 
let  old  One  Eye  have  a  look  at  thee.     He  wants  a  hand." 

Percival  swung  up  beside  Japhra  and  smiled  good 
morning  at  Ima,  who  had  come  to  the  door.  "  Go  on, 
Japhra." 

"That's  a  poor  lot,  that  friend  of  thine,"  said  Japhra, 
cHcking  his  tongue  at  Pilgrim.  "How  far  dost  thou  come 
with  us,  little  master  ?  " 

"All  the  way,  Japhra." 

Japhra  looked  at  him  keenly.     "To  Dorchester?" 

"Farther  than  that.  I'm  going  to  be  third  lad  in  your 
boxing  booth,  Japhra.     Goon;  I'll  explain." 


CHAPTER  XI 

WITH  JAPHRA   ON  THE  ROAD 


It  was  two  years  —  near  enough  —  before  Percival 
came  again  to  Burdon  Village.  Egbert  Hunt  found  work 
with  old  One  Eye  who  had  the  Wild  West  Rifle  Range. 
Percival  became  "  Japhra's  Gentleman"  (as  the  van  folk 
called  him),  living  with  Japhra  and  Ima  in  the  van,  and 
earning  his  way  in  Japhra's  booth. 

A  tough  life,  a  quick  life,  a  good  life ;  and  he  "trained 
on, "  as  they  said  in  the  vans  of  beast  or  man  or  show  that, 
starting  fresh,  slipped  into  stride  and  did  well.  He 
trained  on.  Little  room  for  trouble  or  for  brooding 
thoughts.  Up  while  yet  the  day  was  grey;  stiff  work 
in  boots  and  vest  and  trousers  in  taking  down  the  booth 
and  loading-up,  harnessing  and  getting  your  van  away 
before  too  many  kept  the  dust  stirring  ahead  of  you. 
Keen  appetite  for  the  breakfasts  Ima  cooked,  eaten  on  the 
forward  platform  with  the  van  wheels  grinding  the  road 
beneath.  The  long,  long  trail  to  the  next  pitch,  — 
now  with  Ima  as  she  sat,  one  eye  on  the  horse,  the  other 
on  her  needle,  semng,  darning,  making;  now  plodding 
alongside  with  Japhra,  drinking  his  quaint  philosophy, 
hearing  his  strange  tales  of  men  and  countries,  fights  and 
hard  trades  he  had  seen.  Now  forward  along  the  long 
line  of  waggons,  now  dropping  back  where  they  trailed 
a  mile  down  the    road ;    joining  this  party  or    that, 

296 


WITH  JAPHRA  ON  THE  ROAD  297 

chaffing  with  the  brown-faced  girls  or  walking  with  the 
men  and  listening  to  their  tales  of  their  craft  and  of 
their  Hves.  Sometimes  the  road  from  pitch  to  pitch  was 
short ;  then  the  midday  meal  would  be  taken  at  the  new 
site  and  there  would  be  an  hour's  doze  before  the  booths 
were  set  up  and  business  begun.  Usually  the  journey 
took  the  greater  part  of  the  day  —  frequently  without  a 
halt  —  and  work  must  begin  immediately  on  arrival ;  the 
boxing  booth  built  up  —  first  the  platform  on  which 
Percival  and  Japhra,  Ginger  Cronk  and  Snowball  White 
paraded  to  attract  the  crowd — a  thing  of  boards  and 
trestles,  the  platform,  that  by  sheer  sweating  labour  must 
be  made  to  lie  even  and  stable  whatever  the  character  of 
the  ground ;  three  uprights  at  either  end  that  sometimes 
must  be  forced  into  soil  iron  hard  and  sometimes  must  be 
coaxed  to  hold  firm  in  marshy  bog.  The  booth  itself  to 
be  rigged  then  —  the  wooden  framework  that  must  be 
lashed  and  nailed  and  screwed;  the  wide  lengths  of 
canvas  eyeletted  for  binding  together;  stakes  for  the 
ring  to  be  driven  in;  seats  to  be  bolted  together  and 
covered  —  and  all  at  top,  top  speed  with  a  mouthful  of 
nails  and  screws  and  "Who  in  hell's  got  that  mallet?" 
and  "A  hand  here  !  a  hand  sharp  !  Blast  her  !  she's 
slipped  again  !  "  and  many  a  bruised  finger  and  always  a 
sweating  back.  And  then  sharp,  sharp  into  the  flannels, 
and  out  with  the  gloves ;  and  parade  till  the  booth  was 
full ;  and  spar  exhibition  rounds  alleged  to  be  for  weighty 
purses;  and  fight  all  the  challengers  from  the  crowd 
four  rounds  apiece,  any  weight ;  and  top-up  with  a  stiff 
six  rounds  announced  by  Snowball  White:  "A  sporting 
gentleman  having  put  up  a  purse  for  knock-out  or  win 
on  points  match  between  Ginger  Cronk,  ten  stun  cham- 
pion of  the  west, — who  beat  Curly  Hawkins  in  eight 
rounds,  knocked  out  Alf  Jacobs  after  a  desperate  ding- 


298  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

dong  o'  fourteen  rounds,  defeated  Young  Philipps  in  five 
rounds,  and  Jew  Isaacs  in  sixteen,  —  and  Gentleman 
Percival,  a  lad  with  a  future  before  him,  whom  you'll 
be  proud  to  have  seen,  gentlemen,  discovered  this 
summer  by  Gipsy  Japhra,  the  man  who  held  the  light- 
weight champion  belt  for  four  years  in  America  and  who 
has  trained  with  all  the  great  ring  heroes,  bare-knuckle 
men,  gentlemen,  of  a  glorious  Prize  Ring  period  of  the 
past.  You  are  requested  to  pass  no  remarks  during  the 
progress  of  this  desperate  encounter,  but  to  signify 
appreciation  in  the  usual  manner.  Gentlemen,  Mr. 
Gmger  Cronk,  Mr.  Gentleman  Percival —  TIME  ! —" 
And  so  on;  and  winding  up  with  "a  remarkable  ex- 
hibition in  which  Gipsy  Japhra,  partnered  by  Gentleman 
Percival,  will  show  the  style  and  methods  of  the  old  P.  R. 
gentlemen"  —  and  then  back  to  the  platform  again,  to 
parade,  to  fill  the  booth,  to  fight  —  and  so  till  the  last 
visitor  had  left  the  fair  to  night  and  to  its  hoarse  and 
worn-out  workers. 

A  tough  Hfe,  a  quick  fife,  a  good  life ;  .  .  .  and  Percival 
trained  on.  At  first  he  had  been  considerably  tasked  by 
the  rough  and  tumble,  ding-dong  work  in  the  boxing 
booth  following  the  strenuous  labour  of  the  day,  with  no 
time  lost  between  pitch  and  pitch.  Aching  limbs  he  had 
dropped  on  his  couch  when  at  last  rest  came,  and  tender 
face,  bruised  from  six  or  seven  hours'  punching,  that 
even  the  soft  pillow  seemed  to  hurt.  But  he  trained  on. 
In  a  few  weeks  it  was  tired  to  bed  but  unaching,  unhurt  — 
only  deliciously  weary  with  the  wearyness  of  perfect 
muscles  and  nerves  relaxed  to  dehcious  rest;  early 
afoot,  keen,  and  sound,  and  vigorous;  brisk,  ready 
smiling  to  jump  into  the  ring  for  the  last  P.  R.  exhibition 
with  old  Japhra  as  for  the  first  spar  with  Ginger  Cronk 
or  Snowball  White.     "Thou  art  the  fighting  type,"  wise 


WITH  JAPHRA  ON  THE  ROAD  299 

Japhra  had  told  him  years  before ;  and  those  exhibition 
rounds  with  the  old  man  were  each  of  them  lessons  that 
brought  him  to  rare  skill  with  his  fists. 

While  they  sat  together  before  their  turn  Japhra  would 
instruct  what  was  to  be  learnt  this  time,  and  while  they 
sparred  "Remember!"  Japhra  would  call,  ''Remem- 
ber! Good!  Good!  — Weak!  Weak  !  — Follow  it! 
Follow  it !  —  Speed's  thy  game  !  —  Quick  as  thou 
canst  sling  them  !  —  See  how  that  hook  leaves  thee 
unguarded  !  —  Again  !  —  All  open  to  me  again  !  — 
Again!  —  ah,  take  it,  then!"  and  clip!  to  the  unpro- 
tected stomach,  savage  as  he  could  drive  it,  would  come 
old  Japhra's  left ;  and  Percival  go  gasping,  and  Ginger 
Cronk  to  the  spectators:  *'With  that  terrible  punch, 
gentlemen,  Gipsy  Japhra  knocked  out  Boy  Duggan  and 
took  the  championship  belt  at  Los  Angeles.  Put  your 
hands  together,  gentlemen,  and  give  'em  a  'earty  clap." 
When  the  round  was  ended  Japhra  would  go  over  it 
point  by  point.  When  they  sat  or  walked  together,  at 
meals  or  on  the  road,  he  was  forever  imparting  his  advice, 
his  knowledge,  his  experience.  He  was  never  tired  of 
teaching  ,  .  .  and  Percival  trained  on. 


II 

There  came  a  day  when  "Thou  must  go  slow  with  me," 
Japhra  said  after  they  had  finished  their  round.  "  I  have 
put  skill  to  thy  youth  and  strength.  Thou  must  go  slow 
with  me  or  the  folks  will  see  nothing  of  the  parts  I  am 
to  show  them."  There  came  a  day  when  he  was  given 
demonstration  —  if  he  had  cared  to  recognise  it  for  such 
—  that  the  van  folk  knew  him  for  a  clever  one  with  his 
fists.     Foxy  Pinsent  supplied  it. 

In  all  the  crowd  of  tough  characters  that  made  up 


300  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Maddox's  Royal  Circus  and  Monster  Menagerie  with 
its  attendant  booths  Foxy  Pinsent  alone  gave  him  a 
supercilious  lip  or  darkling  scowl  where  others  gave 
him  smile  and  welcome.  Foxy  Pinsent  had  an  old  grudge 
against  him  —  as  Japhra  had  said  —  and  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity to  rub  it.  The  fact  that  "Japhra's  Gentleman" 
was  in  the  way  of  becoming  a  rival  attraction  to  his  own 
fame  among  the  crowds  that  flocked  to  the  fairs  sharpened 
his  spleen.  The  ever  increasing  bad  blood  between  the 
two  factions  —  Maddox's  and  Stingo's  —  gave  him 
chance  to  exercise  it. 

Percival  came  hot  to  Japhra  one  day:  "Damn  that 
man  Pinsent,  Japhra.  He's  going  too  far  with  me.  He's 
been  putting  it  about  the  vans  that  I  am  too  much  the 
gentleman  to  go  with  a  Maddox  man  —  that  I  said  in  his 
hearing  I  refused  to  go  with  Dingo  Spain  to  buy  bread 
yesterday  because  I  would  not  be  seen  in  his  company 
by  decent  people." 

Japhra  looked  up  at  the  angry  face:  "Let  him  bide. 
Let  him  bide." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  him." 

"Nor  I  of  adders,  but  I  do  not  disturb  their  nests  — 
nor  He  in  their  ways." 

On  a  day  the  reason  came  for  Percival  to  cross  the 
adder's  way.  Egbert  Hunt  knocked  over  a  bucket  in 
which  one  of  Pinsent's  negro  pugihsts  was  about  to  wash. 
The  man  used  his  fists,  then  his  boots,  on  Hunt,  sending 
him  back  brutally  used.  Percival  sought  out  the  black, 
outfought  him  completely,  and  administered  a  punishing 
that  appeared  to  liim  to  meet  the  case.  Then  came 
Pinsent. 

"You've  put  your  hands  to  one  of  my  men,  I  hear — to 
BuckOsbom?" 

"An  infernal  bully,"  said  Percival. 


WITH  JAPHRA  ON  THE   ROAD  301 

"You've  put  your  hands  to  one  of  my  men  !" 

"And  will  again  if  he  gives  me  cause  !" 

Foxy  Pinsent  came  nearer,  thin  mouth  and  narrow 
eyes  contracted  in  his  ring  expression.  "Watch  me,  my 
gentleman ;  my  lads'  quarrels  are  mine.  Watch  out  how 
you  go  your  ways." 

Percival  glanced  behind  to  see  he  had  room:  "You 
can  leave  that  to  me.  I'll  not  have  my  friends  knocked 
about." 

"It's  you  in  danger  of  the  knocking  about,  my  gentle- 
man !  That  fine  face  of  yours  would  take  a  bloody 
mark." 

Percival  slipped  back  his  right  foot  six  inches  and 
glanced  behind  him  again :  "Try  it,  Pinsent." 

Foxy  Pinsent  noticed  the  action.  He  moved  his  left 
fist  upwards  a  trifle,  then  dropped  it  to  his  side  and 
turned  away  with  a  laugh:  "I  don't  fight  boys;  I 
thrash  'em." 

"You  know  where  to  find  me,"  Percival  said. 

Ill 

So  and  in  this  wise  he  trained  on  to  the  tough,  quick, 
good  life;  and  in  spirit  developed  as  in  body.  The 
deeper  he  knew  Japhra,  the  wider  became  his  compre- 
hension of  life.  He  had  failed  once  in  the  struggle  with 
self,  and  that  on  the  very  night  of  Japhra's  instruction  of 
how  that  struggle  should  be  fought :  he  was  training 
on  now  not  to  fail  again  if  ever  the  Big  Fight  should 
come.  "What,  art  thou  vexed  again?"  Japhra  would 
say  when  sometimes  he  fell  to  brooding.  "Get  at  the 
littleness  of  it  —  get  at  the  Uttleness  of  it.  It  will  pass. 
Remember  what  endureth.  Not  man  nor  man's  work  — 
only  the  green  things  that  fade  but  come  again  Spring 


302  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

by  Spring ;  only  the  brown  earth  that  to-day  humbly 
supports  thee,  to-morrow  obscurely  covers  thee;  only 
the  hills  yonder  that  shoulder  aside  the  wind ;  only  the 
sea  that  change th  always  but  change th  never ;  only  the 
wind  on  our  cheeks  here,  that  to-day  suffers  itself  to  go 
in  harness  to  yonder  mill  and  to-morrow  will  wreck  it 
and  encourage  the  grass  where  it  stood.  Lay  hold  on 
that  when  aught  vexeth  thee  ;  all  else  passe  th.  ..." 

He  trained  on.  Trifle  by  trifle  and  more  and  more  he 
received  and  held,  understood  and  stored  for  profit  the 
little  man's  philosophy ;  trifle  by  trifle,  more  and  more, 
developed  qualities  that  made  for  the  quality  of  self- 
restraint  that  ripened  within  him.  Whatever  his  mood 
there  was  always  peace  and  balm  for  him  in  the  van. 
Many  signs  discovered  to  him  that  he  was  not  merely  an 
accepted  part  of  Japhra's  hfe  and  Ima's  but  a  very 
active  part ;  the  little  stir  of  welcome  told  him  that  —  the 
httle  stir  that  always  greeted  him  when  he  came  on  them 
sitting  together. 

They  called  him  ''Percival"  now,  at  his  desire.  To 
Japhra  he  was  still  sometimes  Little  Master;  to  Ima 
never.  But  in  Ima's  ways  and  in  her  speech  he  noticed 
altogether  a  change  in  these  days.  The  "Thou"  and 
"Thee"  and  "Thine"  of  her  former  habit  were  gone: 
she  never  appeared  now  with  naked  feet,  but  always 
neatly  hosed  and  shod.  Gentle  in  her  movements  too, 
and  seemly  in  her  dress,  Percival  noticed,  and  he  came 
to  find  her  strange  —  a  thing  apart  —  in  her  rough 
surroundings ;  strange  to  them  and  remote  from  them 
when  she  sat  plying  her  needle,  attending  to  his  hungry 
wants  and  Japhra's,  or  mothering  some  baby  from  a 
neighbour's  van.  He  came  to  think  her  —  contrasted 
thus  with  all  the  sights  and  sounds  about  her  —  the 
gentlest  creature  that  could  be;  her  voice  wonderfully 


WITH  JAPHRA  ON  THE  ROAD  303 

soft,  her  touch  most  kind  when  she  dressed  a  bruise  or 
nursed  him,  as  once  when  he  lay  two  days  sick.  She 
mended  his  clothes ;  made  some  shirts  for  him ;  passed 
all  his  things  through  her  hands  before  he  might  wear 
them ;  and  never  permitted  him  clothes  soiled,  or  lacking 
buttons,  or  wanting  the  needle. 

He  was  leaving  the  van  once  to  go  into  the  town  against 
which  they  were  pitched.  She  called  him  back.  The 
scarf  he  wore  was  soiled,  she  said,  and  she  came  to  him 
with  a  clean  one. 

He  laughed  at  her :  "It's  absolutely  good  enough." 

"No,  soiled,"  she  said,  and  took  it  from  his  neck  and 
placed  the  other. 

He  playfully  prevented  her  fingers.  "I'm  like  a  child 
with  a  strict  nurse  —  the  way  you  look  after  me." 

She  repHed,  smihng  but  serious:  "It  is  not  for  you  to 
get  into  rough  ways." 

"They're  good  enough  for  me." 

She  shook  her  head.     "You  are  not  always  for  such." 


CHAPTER  Xn 

LETTERS  OF  RECALL 


The  first  winter  of  this  life  Percival  spent  with  Japhra 
in  the  van ;  the  second  took  him,  for  the  first  time  since 
he  had  broken  away,  back  to  ''Post  Ofiic."  Ima  left 
them,  when  the  circus  broke  up  in  that  first  October, 
to  go  to  her  doctor  friend  in  Norfolk,  there  to  continue 
the  education  she  had  imposed  upon  herself.  Egbert 
Hunt  took  her  place,  and  the  three  started  to  tour  the 
country  till  Spring  and  the  reassembly  of  Maddox's 
should  be  round  again.  But  winter  on  the  road  proved 
inclement  to  Mr.  Hunt's  nature.  A  week  of  frost  in 
early  December  that  had  them  three  days  snow-bound 
and  on  pinching  short  commons  decided  him  for  less 
arduous  ways  of  Hfe.  He  left  them  for  London,  his 
pockets  well  enough  Hned  by  his  season's  apprenticeship  to 
old  One  Eye ;  they  had  news  of  him  once  as  a  sociaUst 
open  air  speaker  in  company  with  some  organisation  of 
malcontents  of  his  kidney;  once  as  prominent  in  an 
"unemployed"  disturbance  and  in  prison  ioi  seven  days 
as  the  price  of  his  activities. 

"He  will  know  gaol  a  longer  term  ere  he  has  done," 
was  Japhra's  comment.     "A  weak,  bad  streak  in  him." 

Percival  laughed.  "Poor  old  Hunt.  More  bitter  than 
ever  against  '  tyrangs '  now,  Japhra.  He's  been  shaping 
that  way  since  I  first  knew  him  —  often  made  me  laugb 
with  his  outbursts. " 

304 


LETTERS  OF  RECALL  305 

"Best  keep  clear  of  that  kind,"  Japhra  said.  "The 
atick  for  such." 

They  pushed  North.  Neither  had  a  feehng  for  roofs  or 
fireside  that  winter.  The  tinkering  and  the  Punch  and 
Judy  kept  them  in  enough  funds  scarcely  to  draw  upon 
the  season's  profits.  Japhra  plied  him  at  the  one ; 
Percival  took  chief  hand  in  the  other.  A  tough  Hfe,  a 
quiet  life,  a  good  Hfe.  With  only  their  two  selves  for 
company  they  talked  much  and  read  much  of  the  three 
fighting  books  that  were  Japhra's  hbrary.  Percival  was 
almost  sorry  when  Maddox's  was  picked  up  again  and 
Ima  rejoined  them.  He  welcomed  the  second  winter  when 
it  came;  chance  fell  that  it  had  him  scarcely  a  month 
alone  with  Japhra  when  it  saw  him  leave  the  van,  and 
homeward  bound  to  Burdon. 

II 

Two  letters  gave  him  this  sudden  impulse.  Both  were 
from  "Post  Offic"  —  one  forwarded  thence  —  and 
seemed  to  have  partnered  one  another  on  a  long  and 
devious  search  before  finding  him.  One  was  from 
Aunt  Maggie.  The  other  he  opened  first  and  opened 
with  hands  that  trembled  a  httle.  Well  he  knew  that 
regular,  clear  writing !  He  had  only  seen  it  in  notes  to 
RoUo,  invitations  to  tea,  in  the  days  gone  by,  but  it  was 
as  memorized  to  him  as  in  him  every  memory  of  her  was 
graven  —  Dora's  ! 

His  hands  trembled  that  held  this  the  first  sign  of  her 
since  he  had  left  her  in  the  drive  at  Abbey  Royal  on  that 
night  eighteen  months  before,  and  his  breath  ran  quick. 
The  first  sign  !  He  had  urged  her  at  their  parting  he 
might  write  to  her.  She  had  desired  he  should  not. 
Letters  at  the  French  school  might  only  come,  it  ap- 
peared, from  parents,  or  in  handwriting  authorised  by 


3o6  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

parents,  and  only  to  such  quarters  might  be  addressed. 
He  had  accepted  the  fate.  Nay,  well  it  should  be  so, 
he  had  told  her.  He  would  not —  could  not,  for  he  loved 
her  so  !  —  see  her  again,  be  the  time  never  so  long, 
till  somehow  he  had  won  some  place  in  the  world ;  very 
well,  not  even  write  to  her.  Their  hearts  alone  should 
bind  them :  "For,  Dora,  you  are  to  be  mine.  Somehow 
I  shall  do  it  — ■  not  see  you  till  I  have.  You  will  re- 
member —  that  is  all,  remember." 

How  had  she  remembered?  He  broke  the  seal  and 
held  his  breath  to  read. 

She  wrote  from  Burdon  House  in  Mount  Street: 
explaining  the  address  as  though  he  had  not  known 
Mrs.  Espart  had  taken  it  on  lease  at  the  time  of  Lord 
Burdon's  death :  — 

Dear  Percival, 

We  returned  here  yesterday  from  the  South  of  France, 
where  we  have  been  with  Rollo  and  Lady  Burdon. 
Did  you  know  that  Mother  has  taken  Rollo 's  house  here 
until  he  wants  it  and  turns  us  out?  I  am  writing  for 
Rollo.  I  think  you  will  be  distressed  to  learn  that  he 
has  been  very  ill  —  beginning  with  pneumonia.  But 
we  left  him  better,  and  they  are  following  us  to  London 
soon.  He  most  urgently  desired  me  to  tell  you  this, 
and  that  you  must  come  and  see  him  then.  He  says 
that  he  must  see  you  again ;  and,  indeed,  he  is  forever 
talking  of  you.  As  to  that,  I  must  tell  you  that  when  I 
was  with  him  we  saw  in  an  illustrated  paper  some  pic- 
tures entitled  "Life  among  the  Shownnen;"  and  in  one, 
on  a  tent  was  to  be  seen  "Gentleman  Percival."  From 
what  Rollo  told  us,  that  was  your  tent.  He  was  very 
excited  about  it ;  and  to  me  it  was  very  singular  to  have 
come  upon  it  like  that. 


LETTERS   OF  RECALL  307 

Well,  I  have  written  his  address  on  the  back  of  this, 
and  you  must  certainly  write  to  him  or  he  will  think 
that  I  have  not  told  you  and  that  I  side  with  Lady  Burdon 
and  Mother  in  estimating  that  you  are  "very  wild," 
which  I  do  not. 

I  address  this  to  your  home ;  but  it  is  hard  to  know  if 
it  will  ever  reach  you. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Dora  Espart. 

How  had  she  remembered  ?  No  trace  of  any  memory 
of  love  was  in  the  lines  he  carried  to  his  lips  and  read 
again  and  many  times  again.  He  reckoned  nothing  of  that. 
He  read  what  he  had  expected  to  find.  He  read  herself, 
as  in  the  months  that  separated  that  magic  hour  in  the 
drive  he  had  come  again  to  think  of  her  —  as  one  as 
purely,  rarely,  chastely  different  from  her  sisters  as 
driven  snow  upon  the  Downside  from  snow  that  thaws 
along  the  road ;  as  one  that  he  should  never  have  dared 
terrify  by  his  rough  ardour  into  that  swooning  "Oh, 
Percival,  what  is  it,  this  ?  "  Realising  that  moment  of  his 
passion,  he  sometimes  writhed  in  self-reproach  to  think 
how  violently  he  must  have  distressed  her :  sometimes 
hoped  she  had  forgotten  it  —  else  surely  shame  of  how 
her  delicacy  had  been  ravished  at  his  hands  would  make 
her  shrink  at  meeting  him  again.  So  this  letter  that 
had  no  hint  of  memory  of  love  rejoiced  and  moved  him 
to  his  depths.  Unchanged  from  his  boyish  adoration 
of  her,  it  revealed  her,  and  unchanged  he  would  have  her 
be.  Its  precise  air,  its  selected  words,  its  stilted  phrases, 
spoke  to  him  as  with  her  very  voice  —  "It  was  very 
singular  to  me ; "  "  It  is  hard  to  know  : "  as  icicles  broken 
in  the  hand  !  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red  —  and  frozen 
snow  and  frozen  red  ! 


3o8  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

He  was  ardent  and  atremble  in  the  resolve  that  he 
must  get  to  London  on  Rollo's  return  and  make  old 
Rollo  the  excuse  to  see  her  again  —  touch  her,  perhaps ; 
speak  to  her,  ah  !  —  then,  and  not  till  then,  bethought 
him  of  his  second  letter.  From  Aunt  Maggie;  and  he 
drew  it  from  his  pocket  with  prick  of  shame  at  his  neglect 
of  it.  He  had  from  time  to  time  written  to  Aunt  Maggie. 
Her  letters  were  less  frequent ;  easier  to  write  to  "  Post 
Offic  "  tlian  for  "Post  Offic"  to  write  to  him,  ever  on  the 
move. 

Three  closely-written  sheets  came  from  the  envelope. 
They  contained  many  paragraphs,  each  of  a  different 
date  —  Aunt  Maggie  waited,  as  she  explained,  until 
she  could  be  sure  of  an  address  to  which  to  post  her 
letter.  There  was  much  gossip  of  a  very  intimately 
domestic  nature,  each  piece  of  news  beginning  with  "I 
think  this  will  interest  you,  dear."  Before  he  was 
through  with  the  letter  the  recurrence  of  the  phrase, 
speaking  so  much  devotion,  caused  a  moisture  to  come 
to  his  eyes.  "I  think  this  will  interest  you,  dear "  —  and 
the  matter  was  that  Honor  burnt  a  hole  in  a  new  saucepan 
yesterday.  "I  think  this  will  interest  you,  dear"  —  and 
"fancy  !  fourteen  letters  were  posted  in  the  box  to-day." 
"I  think  this  will  interest  you,  dear"  —  and  would  he 
believe  it!  "one  of  the  ducks  hatched  out  sixteen  eggs 
yesterday." 

The  more  trivial  the  fact,  the  more  Percival  found 
himself  affected.  He  was  touched  with  the  profound 
pathos  of  Aunt  Maggie's  revelation  of  how  he  centeree^ 
each  smallest  detail  of  her  remote  and  lonely  life ;  he 
was  rendered  instantly  responsive  to  the  appeal  with 
which  at  the  end  of  her  letter  she  cried  to  him  to  come 
home  to  see  her  —  if  only  for  a  night.  "This  will  be 
the  second  Christmas  that  you  have  been  away.    The 


LETTERS   OF   RECALL  309 

days  are,  oh  !  so  very,  very  long  for  me  without  my 
darling  boy." 

He  told  Japhra  that  he  must  go  —  not  for  long,  and  if 
for  longer  than  he  thought,  at  least  the  first  of  the  new  year 
would  see  him  back.  They  were  in  Essex.  Urgent  with 
this  sudden  determination  that  had  him,  he  took  train  for 
London  on  the  next  morning,  and  before  midday  was 
set  down  at  Liverpool  Street  Station.  Holiday  mood 
seized  him  now  that  he  had  taken  holiday.  He  counted 
again  and  again  the  sixty-five  pounds  that,  to  his  amazed 
joy,  —  he,  who  till  now  had  never  earned  a  penny  !  — 
Japhra  paid  him  for  two  seasons'  wage  and  share.  It 
seemed  a  fortune  —  forced  up  the  holiday  spirit  as  bel- 
lows at  a  forge ;  and  on  the  way  to  Waterloo  he  ridded 
his  burning  pockets  of  a  portion  of  it  in  clothes  and 
swagger  kit-bag  for  this  his  hohday,  and  in  presents  that 
brought  parcels  of  many  shapes  and  sizes  into  his  cab . — 
for  Aunt  Maggie,  for  Honor,  for  Mr.  Amber,  for  Mr. 
Hannaford,  for  all  to  whom  his  heart  bounded  now  that 
he  was  to  see  them  again. 

Ill 

In  these  deHghts  he  missed  his  train.  Two  hours  were 
on  his  hands  before  the  next,  and  as  he  contemplated 
them  a  daring  thought  (so  he  considered  it)  came  to  him. 
He  took  a  hansom  cab  and  bade  the  man  drive  him  to 
Mount  Street,  —  through  Mount  Street  and  so  back 
again.     He  would  see  where  she  lived  ! 

"Drive  slowly  up  here,"  he  told  the  man  when  the  cab 
turned  into  the  street  for  which  he  watched.  "Do  you 
know  Bur  don  House?" 

It  was  pointed  out  ahead  of  him.  "Set  down  there 
many  a  time.  Lord  Burdon's  'ouse  it  was.  Another 
party's  got  it  now." 


3IO  THE   HAPPY   WARRIOR 

Percival  leant  back,  not  to  be  seen  —  not  daring  to  be 
seen  !  —  and  stared,  his  pulses  drumming,  as  he  was 
slowly  carried  past. 

Might  there  have  troubled  him  some  vague,  secret 
feeling  of  association  between  himself  and  that  brown, 
massive  front  of  Burdon  House  with  its  broad  steps 
leading  to  the  heavy  double  doors,  with  its  tall,  wrought- 
iron  railings  above  the  area,  with  its  old  torch  ex- 
tinguishers on  either  side  the  entrance,  with  its  quiet, 
impassive  air  that  large  old  houses  have,  as  of  guardians 
that  know  much  and  have  seen  much  —  brides  come  and 
coffins  go,  birth  and  death,  gay  nights  and  sad,  glad 
hours  and  sorry  —  and  look  to  know  more  and  see  more  ? 
Might  he  have  felt,  as  he  told  Aunt  Maggie  he  had  felt 
at  Burdon  Old  Manor,  ''thinking  without  thinking,  as  if 
some  one  else  were  thinking,"  as  he  passed  those  steps 
where  one  that  he  might  have  called  Father  often  had 
gaily  passed,  where  one  he  might  have  called  Mother 
had  gone  wearily  up  and  come  fainting,  dizzily  down  ? 

He  felt,  nor  was  disturbed,  by  none  of  those.  He  only 
gazed,  gazed  as  he  would  pierce  them,  at  all  its  solemn 
windows,  riveted  its  every  feature  on  his  mind ;  but  only 
because  it  was  where  she  must  have  looked,  because  it 
sheltered  her  where  she  must  be.  It  was  a  new  setting 
against  which  he  might  envisage  her ;  he  only  thought  of 
it  as  thaL 


CHAPTER   XIII 

MR.   AMBER  DOES   NOT  RECOGNISE 


It  was  in  dreams  that  night  that  vague,  secret  in- 
fluences of  his  sight  of  Burdon  House  came  stealing  about 
him  —  if  such  they  were ;  he  attributed  them  to  the 
disturbance  of  an  event  that  greeted  him  within  a  few 
hours  of  his  gay  arrival  at  "Post  Ofhc." 

He  had  announced  his  coming  by  telegram.  He  took 
Plowman's  Ridge  on  leaving  the  train  at  Great  Letham, 
old  friend  wind  greeting  him  with  most  boisterous  Ha  ! 
Ha  !  Ha  !  and  as  he  came  down  the  slope  two  figures 
broke  from  the  Httle  copse  and  came  fluttering  up  the 
Downside  towards  him  —  one  slight  with  running  tears, 
and  outstretched,  eager  arms ;  the  other  gaunt  and  grim, 
uncompromising  of  visage,  but  with  eyes  aglisten. 

"Aunt  Maggie!     Aunt  Maggie!" 

"My  boy!     MyPercival!" 

Her  boy's  arms  went  about  her :  for  a  space  neither 
moved  after  that  first  cry.  He  only  held  her  —  close, 
close  to  him ;  she  only  clung  to  him,  her  face  to  his,  and 
felt  his  dear  face  stop  her  flowing  tears. 

He  held  her  from  him  then  at  arm's  length,  the  better 
to  gaze  at  her ;  and  she  overcame  her  foolish  tears  and 
told  him  :  "How  you  have  grown  !  How  handsome  you 
have  grown  !" 

And  Honor  grimly,  with  grimness  spoilt  by  chokey 

3" 


312  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

utterance:  "Ah,  handsome  is  as  handsome  don't  make 
fine  birds  !" 

"You've  got  it  wrong,  you  frightful  old  goose  !"  cried 
Percival ;  and  there  was  Honor's  bony  cheek  to  be  kissed, 
her  bony  hug  to  take. 

Then  the  disturbing  even  :  — 

Mr.  Amber,  Aunt  Maggie  told  him,  was  dying.  He 
had  been  told  Percival  was  coming  and  had  begged  to 
see  him.  There  had  only  been  a  brief  interval  of  con- 
sciousness in  the  last  twenty-four  hours;  Percival  had 
better  go  at  once. 

II 

Percival  went  immediately.  The  Old  Manor  had  the 
deserted  aspect  he  remembered  when,  as  a  little  boy, 
he  used  to  seek  Mr.  Amber  in  the  library ;  and  it  was  to 
the  Ubrary  he  now  was  taken.  Mr.  Amber  had  been 
carried  there.  He  knew  he  was  to  die.  He  had  begged 
to  die  in  the  apartment  he  loved  —  among  his  books. 

There  Percival  found  him.  He  lay  on  a  bed  that  had 
been  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  He  was  asleep, 
breathing  with  a  harsh,  unnatural  sound.  A  nurse 
sent  over  from  Great  Letham  attended  him,  and  Percival 
inquired  of  her  :  "I  am  Percival ;  has  he  been  asking  for 

me?" 

She  shook  her  head:  "Since  this  morning  only  for 
Lord  Burdon.     Before  that,  frequently." 

Percival  went  on  one  knee  by  the  bedside.  The  mild 
old  face  that  he  had  always  known  silvery  and  smihng 
seemed  white  as  the  pillow  where  it  lay,  pathetically 
lined  and  hollowed.  On  a  sudden  the  eyes  very  slowly 
opened  and  looked  full  into  Percival's  bending  above 
him.     Percival  experienced  a  shock  of  horror  at  what 


MR.   AMBER  DOES  NOT  RECOGNISE    313 

followed.  Burning  intelligence  flamed  into  the  dim 
eyes ;  the  blood  rushed  in  a  crimson  cloud  to  the  white 
face ;  the  thin  form  struggled  where  it  lay. 

*'My  lord!  my  lord!"  Mr.  Amber  whispered;  and 
*'lift  me  —  lying  down  before  my  lord  ! " 

*' Mr.  Amber!     I  am  Percival !     You  remember  me  ! " 

The  nurse  raised  him,  and  with  practised  hand  the 
pillows  also,  so  that  he  reclined  against  them.  "It  is 
your  friend  Percival.  Lord  Burdon  will  soon  come, 
perhaps." 

He  gave  her  no  attention.  He  smiled  at  Percival  in 
something  of  his  mild  old  way.  "We  are  very  weak,  my 
lord,"  he  said.     "Very  weak." 

"  Mr.  Amber  !  I  am  Percival !  You  remember  what 
friends  we  were.  You  will  get  strong,  and  we  wiU  have 
some  more  reading  together  —  you  remember  ?  " 

Mr.  Amber  still  smiling,  his  eyes  closed  again.  "On 
the  ladders." 

"Yes  —  yes.  On  the  ladders.  You  remember  now  — 
Percival." 

Mr.  Amber's  smile  seemed  to  settle  upon  his  face  as 
though  his  lips  were  made  so.   "Hold  my  hand,  my  lord." 

He  began  to  slip  down  in  the  bed.  The  nurse  eased 
his  position.  He  seemed  back  to  unconsciousness 
again,  his  breathing  very  laboured.  Night  had  drawn 
about  the  room  and  was  held  dusky  by  the  candles. 
There  stole  about  Percival,  as  he  knelt,  atmosphere  of 
the  memories  he  had  recalled  in  vain  attempt  to  arouse 
Mr.  Amber's  recognition.  Again  dusk  here,  and  he  with 
mild,  old  Mr.  Amber.  Again  shadows  wreathing  about 
the  liigh  ceiling,  stealing  from  the  corners.  Again  a 
soft  thudding  on  the  window-pane,  as  of  some  shadow 
seeking  to  enter  —  death  ?  Again  the  strange  feeling  of 
thinking  without   thinking  as  if  some  one  else  were 


ii 


314  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

thinking"  — and  on  that,  worn  out  perhaps  with  his 
long   day,  perhaps   carried  by  some  other  agency,  he 
went   into   a   dream-state  in   which   vague,    secret  in- 
fluences of  his  ride  through  Mount  Street  came  upon  him. 
He  thought  he  was  in  Mount  Street  again  and  come  to 
Burdon  House,  and  that  the  door  opened  as  he  ascended 
the  steps.     He  found  the  interior  completely  familiar  to 
him,  and  for  some  reason  was  frightened  and  trembled 
to  find  it  so.     He  went  from  familiar  room  to  familiar 
room,  afraid  at  their  familiarity  as  though  it  was  some 
wrong  thing  he  was  doing,  and  knew  himself  search- 
ing —  searching  —  searching.     What  he  searched  he  did 
not  know.     He   just  opened   a  door,  and  looked,  and 
closed  it  and  passed  on.     There  were  persons  in  some 
rooms  —  once  Dora,   once   Rollo,   once  Lady  Burdon. 
They  stretched  hands  to  him  or  spoke.     He  shook  his 
head  and  told  them  "I  am  not  looking  for  you,"  and 
closed  the  doors  upon  them.     He  climbed  the  completely 
familiar  stairs  and  searched  each  floor.     The  fear  that 
attended  him  suddenly  increased.     He  had  a  sudden  and 
most  eerie  feehng  that  some  presence  was  come  about 
him  as  he  searched.     He  heard  a  voice  cry :  "My  son  ! 
My  son  !     We  have  waited  for  you.     Oh,  we  have  waited 
for  you  ! "     Fear  changed  to  a  flood  of  yearning  emotion. 
He  tried  to  cry,  "It  is  you  —  you  I  am  looking  for!" 
He  could  not  speak,  and  wrestled  for  speech ;  and  wrest- 
ling, came  back  to  consciousness  of  his  surroundings.     He 
was  streaming  with  perspiration,   he  found.     He  saw 
next  that  Mr.  Amber's  eyes  were  open  and  looking  at 
him,  and  heard  him  say,  "Percival !" 

Had  that  been  the  voice  in  that  frightful  dream  ? 
"Mr.  Amber  !  ^  I  knew  you  would  know  me  !" 
Recognition  was  in  the  eyes,  but  they  were  filming. 
"Yes,  he  knows  you,"  the  nurse  whispered. 


MR.  AMBER  DOES  NOT   RECOGNISE     315 

Quite  firmly,  firmer  than  he  had  yet  spoken:  "Hold 
my  hand  —  my  lord,"  Mr.  Amber  said,  and  ended 
the  words  and  ended  life  with  a  little  throaty  sound. 

The  nurse  disengaged  their  hands.  *'But  I  am  so  glad 
he  did  just  recognise  you,"  she  said  kindly. 


Ill 

Old  friend  wind  was  in  tremendous  fettle  that  night. 
Percival  battled  along  Plowman's  Ridge  on  his  way  back 
and  had  battled  twenty  minutes  when  he  cried  aloud, 
venting  his  grief,  and  answering  the  nurse's  words, 
"He  didn't  recognise  me  !" 

And  old  friend  wind  paused  to  listen ;  came  in  tre- 
mendous gusts.  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  and  hurled  the  words 
aloft  and  tossed  and  rushed  them  high  along  the  Ridge. 

"Something  was  wrong  with  me  in  there,"  Percival 
exclaimed.  "Did  I  speak  sense  to  him?  What  was 
happening  to  me  ?  Was  I  dreaming  ?  What  was  it  ?  — 
oh,  damn  this  wind  !" 

Ha !  Ha  !  Ha  !  thundered  old  friend  wind,  stagger- 
ing him  anew  —  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  ! 

An  absolutely  irrepressible  party,  old  friend  wind. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DORA  REMEMBERS 


PERcrvAL  was  not  the  only  one  that  in  this  period  was 
disturbed  by  uneasy  dreams,  by  vague  and  strange 
half-thoughts,  by  "thinking  without  thinking,"  as 
though  some  other  influence  were  temporarily  in  posses- 
sion of  the  senses.  Lady  Burdon  was  thus  disturbed; 
Aunt  Maggie,  too.  But  of  the  three  Aunt  Maggie  only 
knew  the  cause.  If  Lady  Burdon,  if  Percival,  had 
brought  their  unrest  to  her  for  explanation  she  might 
have  explained  it  as  she  was  able  to  explain  her  own  — • 
the  ''fluttering"  that  very  often  came  to  her  in  these 
days  of  Percival's  visit  home.  She  might  have  told 
them,  as  she  told  herself,  that  it  was  occasioned  for  that 
the  years  were  closing  in  now  —  the  prepared  doom  gath- 
ering about  them  all  and  they  responsive  to  its  nearness 
as  gathering  storm  gives  vague  unease,  headaches,  de- 
pression when  its  emanations  fall. 

For  her  own  part  Aunt  Maggie  had  herself  in  hand 
again  —  was  again  possessed  by  the  certitude  that  noth- 
ing could  go  amiss  with  her  plans.  It  had  supported 
her  through  all  these  long  years.  It  had  been  shaken, 
but  had  recovered  again,  by  fear  of  Percival's  affection 
for  Rollo.  It  tore  at  her  frantically,  like  a  strong  horse 
against  the  bridle,  now  that  only  a  few  months  remained 
for  its  release  in  her  revenge's  execution.  In  little 
less  than  a  year  Percival  would  be  twenty-one.  She  no 
more  minded  —  relative  to  her  plans  —  the  proof  of 

316 


DOR.\   REMEMBERS  317 

the  fondness  still  between  him  and  Rollo  shown  in  his 
leaving  her  to  stay  with  Rollo  in  town,  than  she  minded 
—  relative  to  the  same  purpose  —  his  detennination 
to  be  with  Japhra  again  when  winter  ended.  She  suf- 
fered distress  both  at  the  one  and  the  other  in  that  they 
robbed  her  of  the  object  of  her  heart's  devotion;  she 
felt  no  qualm  that  either  would  hinder  her  revenge. 
"Strangp-Uke?"  "Touched-like?"  The  villagers, 
when  she  passed  them  without  seeing  them  in  these 
days,  were  more  than  ever  sure  of  that,  poor  thing ;  but 
she  was  more  than  ever  sure  —  lived  in  the  past  and  in 
the  near,  near  future  and  had  scenes  to  watch  there. 


II 

Rollo's  return  to  town  was  delayed  longer  than  Dora 
had  supposed  in  her  letter  to  Percival.  It  was  not  till 
February  that  his  doctors  and  his  mother  gave  way  to 
his  protestations  that  he  would  never  get  fit  if  he  could 
not  go  and  have  a  ghmpse  of  old  Percival  while  he  had 
the  chance,  and  then  it  was  only  for  a  week  —  a  passage 
through  town  to  get  some  things  done  and  to  pick  up 
the  Esparts  for  a  spring  sojourn  in  Italy. 

Thus  Percival  was  several  weeks  with  Aunt  Maggie 
before  he  left  her  for  Rollo  —  and  Dora.  Pleasant 
weeks  he  found  them,  reclaiming  all  the  old  friends 
(save  that  one  whose  grave  only  was  now  to  be  visited) 
and  in  their  company,  and  in  the  new  affection  that 
they  gave  him  for  his  strong  young  manhood,  retasting 
again  the  happy,  happy  time  of  earlier  days.  There 
were  jolly  teas  with  the  Purdies,  brother  and  sister; 
plump  Mr.  Purdie  never  tired  of  saying,  with  quite  the 
most  absurd  of  his  shrill,  ridiculous  chuckles,  "Why, 
you've  grown  into  a  regular  man  and  I  expected  to  see 


3i8  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

a  swarthy  gipsy  with  earrings  and  a  red  neckcloth  !  " 
birdlike  little  Miss  Purdie,  more  birdlike  than  ever  with 
her  little  hops  and  nods  and  her  "Now  fancy  you  coming 
to  take  me  to  the  Great  Letham  Church  Bazaar  !  I 
was  wanting  to  go.  But  you're  not  to  be  extravagant, 
Percival.  At  Christmas  you  were  dreadful.  You  don't 
know  the  value  of  money!"  And  there  were  almost 
daily  visits  to  Mr.  Hannaford,  Stingo  with  him  now  till 
the  road  was  to  be  taken  again,  who  found  Percival  a 
proper  full-size  marvel  now,  and  blessed  his  eighteen 
stun  proper  if  he  didn't,  whose  little  'orse  farm  was 
developing  amazingly,  who  displayed  it  and  who  dis- 
cussed it  with  Percival  to  the  tune  of  leg-and-cane  cracks 
of  almost  incredible  volume,  and  who  placed  at  Percival's 
entire  disposal  a  little  riding  'orse,  three  parts  blood 
and  one  part  fire,  that  showed  him  to  possess  a  seat  and 
hands  that  any  Httle  'orse  oughter  be  proud  to  carry, 
"bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  he  didn't !"  (Crack  !) 

And  there  were  thoughts  of  Dora  .  .  .  who  soon  must 
be  met  and  whom  to  meet  he  burned  (his  darling  !)  and 
feared  (his  darhng  and  his  goddess  !  —  too  rare,  too  ex- 
quisite for  him,  as  tracery  of  frost  upon  the  window-pane 
that  touch  or  breath  will  break  or  tarnish  !).  Thus  he 
thought  of  her ;  thus  to  help  his  thoughts  often  walked 
over  to  closed  Abbey  Royal ;  thus  never  could  approach 
the  gates  without  the  thought  that  if,  by  some  miracle, 
he  met  her  there  he  could  not  dare  approach  her.  He 
would  steal  away  at  her  approach,  he  knew.  Watch 
her  if,  unseen,  he  might  xmseen  adore  her  —  mark  her 
perfect  beauty,  breathless  see  her  breathe;  watch  her 
poised  to  listen  to  some  bird  that  hymned  her  coming ; 
watch  her  stoop  to  greet  some  flower's  fragrance  with 
her  own.  Watch  the  happy  grasses  take  her  feet  and 
watch  those  others,  benisoned  and  scented  by  the  bor- 


DORA  REMEMBERS  319 

der  of  her  gown ;  watch  the  tumbling  breezes  give  her 
path  and  only  kiss  her  —  see  them  race  along  the  leaves 
to  give  her  minstrelsy.  Speak  to  her  ?  —  how  should 
he  dare  ? 

Ill 

What  his  condition  then  when  at  last  in  London  he 
came  face  to  face  with  her?  Rollo  and  Lady  Burdon 
stayed  their  week  at  a  private  hotel  —  Baxter's  in  Albe- 
marle Street.  He  was  immediately  made  their  guest 
(against  Lady  Burdon 's  wish,  who  desired  now  in  the 
approach  of  the  consummation  of  her  own  plans  —  and 
Mrs.  Espart's  —  to  detach  the  friendship  she  had  for- 
merly encouraged ;  but  he  did  not  know  that) .  Rollo 
met  him  at  Waterloo  station  and  took  him  direct  to  the 
hotel.  Eager  to  meet  old  Rollo  again  he  was  touched 
by  the  pathetic  devotion  of  Rollo 's  greeting,  touched 
also  at  the  frail  and  delicate  figure  that  he  presented. 
The  emotions  were  violently  usurped  by  others  when 
Baxter's  was  reached  and  he  was  taken  to  the  private 
sitting-room  Lady  Burdon  had  engaged. 

"Here's  mother  !"  Rollo  cried,  opening  the  door. 

Here  also  were  Mrs.  Espart  and  Dora. 

The  elder  ladies  were  seated.  Percival  greeted  them 
and  fancied  their  manner  not  very  warm.  He  had  a 
swift  recollection  of  the  letter's  advice  that  they  joined 
in  estimating  him  "Very  wild";  but  while  he  shook 
hands,  while  he  exchanged  the  conventional  civilities, 
his  mind,  nothing  concerned  with  them,  was  actively 
discussing  how  he  should  comport  himself,  what  he 
should  see,  when  he  turned  to  the  figure  that  had  stood 
by  the  window,  facing  away  from  him,  when  he  entered. 

"Never  in  London  before  —  no,"  he  said.  "I  have 
passed  through  once,  that  is  all." 


320  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Then  he  turned. 

She  had  come  down  the  room  and  was  within  two 
paces  of  him.  Her  dress  was  of  some  dark  colour  and 
she  wore  fine  sables,  thrown  back  so  that  they  lay  upon 
her  shoulders  and  came  across  her  arms.  A  large  black 
hat  faintly  shadowed  the  upper  part  of  her  face;  her 
left  hand  was  in  a  muff,  and  when  he  turned  towards 
her  she  had  the  muff  nestled  against  her  throat.  She 
gave  the  appearance  of  having  watched  him  while  he 
spoke,  reckoning  what  he  was,  with  her  face  resting  medi- 
tatively upon  her  muff,  her  tall  and  slim  young  figure 
upright  upon  her  feet. 

There  was  no  perceptible  pause  between  his  turning  to 
her  and  their  speaking.  Yet  he  had  time  for  a  long, 
long  thought  of  her  before  he  opened  his  lips.  It  took 
his  breath.  So  still  she  stood,  so  serene  and  contempla- 
tive her  look,  that  he  thought  of  her,  standing  there,  as 
some  most  rich  and  most  rare  picture,  framed  by  the 
soft  dusk  that  London  rooms  have,  and  surely  framed  and 
set  apart  from  mortal  things. 

She  dropped  her  muff  to  her  arm's  length  with  a  sudden 
action,  just  as  a  portrait  might  stir  to  come  to  life.  She 
raised  her  head  so  that  the  shadow  went  from  her  face 
and  revealed  her  eyes,  as  a  jealous  leaf's  shade  might  be 
stirred  to  reveal  the  dark  and  dew-crowned  pansy.  She 
had  not  removed  her  gloves  and  she  gave  him  her  small 
hand  —  that  last  he  had  held  cold,  trembling  and  un- 
covered —  gloved  in  white  kid.  She  spoke  and  her 
voice  —  that  last  he  had  heard  aswoon  —  had  the  high, 
cold  note  he  thrilled  to  hear. 

"It  is  pleasant  to  see  you  again,"  she  said. 

He  never  could  recall  in  what  words  he  replied  —  nor 
if  indeed  he  effected  reply. 

Conventional  words  went  between  them  before  she 


DORA  REMEMBERS  321 

and  her  mother  took  their  departure;  conventional 
words  again  at  a  chance  meeting  on  the  following  day 
and  again  when  the  parties  met  by  arrangement  at  a 
matinee.  His  week  drew  to  a  close.  As  its  end  neared 
he  began  to  resist  the  mute  and  distant  adoration  which 
he  had  felt  must  be  his  part  when  he  had  thought  of 
meeting  her  again  and  which,  without  pang,  he  at  first 
accepted  as  his  part  now  that  they  were  come  together. 
But  when  the  very  hours  could  be  counted  that  would 
see  her  gone  from  him  again  he  felt  that  attitude  could 
no  longer  be  endured.  Insupportable  to  pass  into  the 
future  without  a  closer  sign  of  her  !  —  insupportable  even 
though  the  sign  proved  one  that  should  reward  his 
temerity  by  sealing  her  forever  from  his  lips.  He  nerved 
himself  to  the  daring  —  the  very  opportunity  was  hard 
to  seek.  Rollo,  in  the  shghtly  selfish  habit  that  belongs 
to  dehcate  persons  accustomed,  as  he  was  accustomed,  to 
their  own  way,  was  ever  desirous  of  having  Percival  to 
himself  alone.  He  saw  plenty  of  Dora  at  other  times, 
he  said  (deHberately  avoiding  a  chance  of  meeting 
her  on  one  occasion) ;  and  when  Percival,  not  daring 
to  do  more,  made  scruples  on  grounds  of  mere  poHte- 
ness,  "But,  bless  you,  she'll  think  nothing  of  it,"  Rollo 
said  carelessly:  "She's  made  of  ice  —  Dora.  I  like 
her  all  right,  you  know.  But  she's  not  keen  on  any- 
thing. She's  got  no  more  feehng  than  —  well,  ice," 
and  he  laughed  and  dismissed  the  subject. 

Had  she  not?     It  was  Percival's  to  challenge  it. 

The  chance  came  on  the  eve  of  the  morrow  that  was 
to  see  his  friend's  departure  for  Italy  and  his  own  for 
a  farewell  to  Aunt  Maggie  and  so  back  to  Japhra  again. 
The  Esparts  came  over  to  dinner  at  Baxter's  hotel  — 
came  in  response  to  Lady  Burdon's  private  and  urgent 
request  of  Mrs.  Espart.     The  week  of  Percival's  visit 


322  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

had  tried  her  sorely.  Night  by  night  and  every  night, 
as  she  told  Mrs.  Espart,  she  had  had  that  dreadful  night- 
mare of  hers  again  —  that  girl  to  whom  she  cried  "I 
am  Lady  Burdon,"  and  who  answered  her:  "Oh,  how 
can  you  be  Lady  Burdon?;"  to  whom  she  cried  "I 
hold,"  and  who  answered  her,  "No,  you  do  not  —  Nay,  I 
hold." 

Aunt  Maggie  might  have  explained  it.  Mrs.  Espart 
laughed  outright.  "That?  Good  gracious,  I  thought 
you  had  f6rgotten  that  long  ago." 

"So  I  had  —  so  I  had.  I  never  thought  of  it  again 
from  the  day  I  told  you  until  last  Wednesday  night  — 
the  day  Percival  came  to  us.  Since  then  every 
night  ..." 

She  paused  before  the  last  words  and  stopped  abruptly 
after  them. 

"Well,  my  dear!  You're  not  putting  down  to  poor 
Percival  what  must  be  the  fault  of  Mr.  Baxter's  menus, 
surely?" 

Lady  Burdon  said  without  conviction:  "No  —  no, 
I'm  not.  Still,  it  began  then  —  and  I  don't  like  him 
now  —  don't  care  for  Rollo  to  be  so  attached  to  him 
now  —  and  had  words  with  Rollo  about  it  —  and  perhaps 
that  was  the  reason  and  is  the  reason.  Anyway,  do 
come  to  dinner  to-night  —  distract  my  thoughts  per- 
haps —  I  can't  face  that  nightmare  again.     It's  on  my 


nerves." 


Mrs.  Espart  permitted  herself  the  tiniest  yawn,  but 
promised  to  come ;  and  came,  bringing  Dora. 

IV 

So  Percival's  chance  came,  or  so  came,  rather,  his 
last  opportunity  —  for  he  ran  it  to  the  final  moment. 


DORA  REMEMBERS  323 

Announcement  of  the  Esparts'  carriage  brought  their 
evening  to  an  end,  and  he  went  down  with  Rollo  to  see 
them  ofif.  Baxter's  preserved  its  exclusiveness  by  pre- 
serving its  old  fashions ;  the  staircase  was  narrow,  so 
ihe  hall.  Mrs.  Espart  went  first,  then  Rollo.  Percival 
followed  Dora. 

As  she  came  to  the  pavement  she  turned  to  gather  her 
skirts  about  her.     In  the  action  she  looked  full  at  him. 

The  end  ? 

He  said  :  "Dora  —  do  you  ever  remember  ?  " 

Her  skirts  seemed  to  have  eluded  her  fingers  and  she 
must  make  another  hold  at  them.  He  saw  the  colour 
flame  where  her  fair  face  showed  it,  swiftly,  deeply  scar- 
let in  that  shade  on  either  cheek.  He  saw  her  young 
breast  rise  as  though  that  red  flood  drew  and  held  it  — 
saw  her  lips  part  for  words,  and  held  his  breath  to  catch 
her  voice. 

"I  have  not  forgotten,"  she  whispered. 


BOOK  FIVE 

BOOK  OF  FIGHTS  AND  OF  THE  BIG  FIGHT. 
THE  ELEMENT  OF   COURAGE 


BOOK  FIVE 

BOOK  OF  FIGHTS  AND  OF  THE  BIG  FIGHT. 
THE  ELEMENT  OF  COURAGE 

CHAPTER  I 

BOSS  MADDOX  SHOWS  HIS  HAND 


Ima  asked :  "Of  what  are  you  thinking,  Percival?" 
"Of  when  I  shall  leave  you  aU  —  and  how." 
She  replied:    "Strange,  then,  how  thoughts  run.     It 
was  in  my  mind  also." 

Stranger  how  tricks  and  chances  of  Hfe  go  !  This 
trick  and  that  —  and  this  was  to  be  his  last  night  with 
the  van  folk.  That  chance  and  this  —  and  within  a 
few  hours  he  was  to  be  returned  to  Aunt  Maggie,  bade 
good-by  at  the  close  of  his  visit  scarcely  four  months 
since.  This  trick  and  that,  that  chance  and  this,  and 
he  was  to  be  put  in  the  way  of  winning  Dora  —  a  way 
that  never  had  seemed  so  obscure,  never  so  impossible 
of  attainment  as  when  he  came  back  to  Japhra  with 
her  "I  have  not  forgotten,"  at  once  shouting  to  him 
that  she  loved  him  and  mocking  him  with  the  difference 
between  her  estate  and  his. 

Already  the  tricks  and  chances  were  afoot.  He  was 
alone  with  Ima  upon  a  rising  bluff  of  common  land. 
Considerably  below  them,  so  that  they  looked  down  as 
it  were  from  a  cliff  to  a  valley,  the  fair  was  pitched  and 

327 


328  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

in  full  swing  —  that  it  was  in  full  swing  and  he  idle  was 
the  first  step  in  the  freakish  hazards  that  were  to  encom- 
pass him  this  night. 

II 

A  stifling  evening  had  succeeded  a  burning  day.  Here 
on  the  bluff  a  breeze  moved  cool  and  soft  as  it  had  been 
waf tings  from  the  dusky  cloak  night  dropped  about  them  ; 
below  was  heat  and  crowded  life  and  clamour,  rising  in 
the  waving  reek  of  the  naphtha  flares ;  in  shouts  of  the 
showmen;  in  shrill  laughter  from  village  girls  at  fun 
about  the  booths,  or  horseplay  with  their  swains;  in 
ceaseless  rifle-cracks  from  the  shooting-galleries  —  in 
drum-thumpings,  in  steam  organs,  in  brazen  instru- 
ments; occasionally,  high  above  it  all,  in  enormous 
oo-oo-oomphs  from  the  caged  hons  in  the  huge  marquee 
that  housed  Boss  Maddox's  Royal  Circus  and  Monster 
Forest-bred  Menagerie  —  a  tremendous  sound,  as  Per- 
cival  thought  when  it  came  booming  across  the  clamour, 
that  was  a  brute's  but  that  seemed,  like  some  trump  of 
protest  against  the  din,  to  make  brutish  the  human 
cries  and  shouts  it  governed. 

Two  crowds,  leaving  and  entering,  jostled  one  another 
at  the  entrance  to  the  Royal  Circus  and  Forest-bred 
Menagerie ;  stretching  on  either  hand  from  where  they 
pressed  ran  the  minor  shows  under  Boss  Maddox's 
proprietorship,  forming  a  noisy,  flaring  street  that  ended, 
facing  the  circus  marquee,  with  "Foxy"  Pinsent's  Acad- 
emy of  Boxing  and  School  of  Arms.  Maddox's  Royal 
Circus  and  Forest  Bred  Menagerie  at  one  end,  Pinsent's 
fine  booth  at  the  other  —  between  them  Maddox's 
Living  Pictures,  Maddox's  Wild-West  Shooting  Gallery, 
Maddox's  Steam  Switch-back  and  Aerial  Railway, 
Maddox's    Original    Marionettes,    Maddox's    Premier 


BOSS  MADDOX  SHOWS   HIS   HAND      329 

Boatswings,  Maddox's  Monster  Panorama,  Maddox's 
Royal  Theatre  and  Concert  Divan,  Maddox's  Elite 
Refreshment  Saloons,  Maddox's  American  Freak 
Museum,  and  all  Maddox's  smaller  fry  —  coker-nut 
shies,  hoop-las,  Living  Mermaid,  Hall  of  Strength,  Cave 
of  Mystery,  Magic  Mirrors,  and  the  rest  of  them ;  owned 
by  Boss  Maddox,  financed  by  Boss  Maddox,  or,  if  of 
independent  ownership,  having  the  Boss's  favour  and 
acknowledging  the  Boss's  ownership. 

No  booths  whose  proprietors  called  Stingo  Boss  were 
open :  and  that  was  one  step  in  the  tricks  and  chances 
of  the  day. 

The  gaunt  figure  of  Boss  Maddox,  watchful  and  urgent 
this  night  for  the  very  reason  that  the  Stingo  booths 
were  closed,  passed  now  along  the  further  side  of  lights 
towards  Foxy  Pinsent's  pitch.  Head  bent  towards 
his  left  shoulder ;  hands  clasped  behind  his  back ;  un- 
commonly tall ;  uncommonly  spare  —  that  was  Boss 
Maddox  anywhere. 

A  further  mark,  as  he  moved  through  his  little  king- 
dom, proclaimed  him  who  he  was  and  what  he  was. 
Frequent  nods  of  his  head  he  made  in  response  to  hat 
touchings  or  greetings  in  the  crowd ;  frequent  stoppings 
to  exchange  a  few  words  with  some  figure  that  stepped 
into  his  path  —  and  broke  away  from  others  or  pushed 
others  aside  to  step  there :  the  local  tradesmen  these, 
or  members  of  the  local  Borough  Council,  anxious  to  be 
in  with  Boss  Maddox  and  so  to  secure  the  considerable 
patronage  in  victualling  and  provender  he  was  able  to 
distribute;  or  anxious  to  let  fellow-townsmen  observe 
on  what  familiar  terms  they  were  with  the  Boss,  and 
concerned  to  know  that  he  found  his  pitch  to  his  liking. 
A  mighty  man,  the  Boss  in  these  days,  who  bought  up 
hia  pitches  and  paid  handsomely  for  them  a  year  in  ad- 


330  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

vance,  who  on  a  famous  occasion  had  fallen  into  dispute 
with  a  Borough  Council,  refused  their  district  the  honour 
of  his  shows,  and  thereby  —  by  loss  of  entertainment 
and  loss  of  revenue  —  had  caused  the  Borough  Council- 
lors to  suffer  defeat  at  the  next  election.  Things  like 
that  were  remembered  up  and  down  the  west  of  Eng- 
land; Boss  Maddox  in  the  result  was  reckoned  a  man 
to  be  placated,  to  be  done  homage,  and  to  have  his  in- 
terests preserved.  Only  the  old  Stingo  gang  resisted  him, 
and  this  day  he  had  paid  them  dear  for  their  want  of 
allegiance. 

His  parade  brought  him  at  length  to  "Foxy"  Pinsent's 
Academy  of  Boxing  and  School  of  Arms.  Foxy  Pinsent 
had  risen  to  be  his  lieutenant  and  right-hand  man  in 
the  management  of  his  business,  and  Boss  Maddox  was 
come  to  compare  notes  on  how  the  Stingo  crowd  were 
taking  their  set-back. 

Eight  pugiUsts '  in  flannels  —  two  of  them  negroes  — 
displayed  themselves  upon  the  raised  platform  outside 
the  Academy  of  Boxing  and  School  of  Arms.  Pinsent, 
in  a  long  fawn  coat  reaching  to  his  shoes,  paced  before 
them,  crying  to  the  assembled  crowds  their  merits,  their 
prowess,  their  achievements  and  their  challenges.  He 
swung  a  great  bundle  of  boxing  gloves  in  his  right  hand 
and,  amid  delighted  shouts  of  the  spectators,  sent  a 
pair  flying  to  venturesome  yokels  here  and  there  who 
pointed  to  one  or  other  of  the  eight  stalwarts  in  accept- 
ance of  combat. 

As  Boss  Maddox  pushed  his  way  to  the  front  the  eight 
turned  and  filed  into  the  booth.  He  raised  a  hand. 
Foxy  Pinsent  tossed  a  last  pair  of  gloves  to  the  crowd, 
came  down  the  steps  from  the  platform  and  joined  him. 

"How  are  they  taking  it.  Boss?" 

"Pretty  tough.     Move  round  with  me  and  let  'em 


BOSS   MADDOX  SHOWS  HIS  HAND      331 

see  we're  watching.     In  a  while  I'm  to  have  a  word  with 
Stingo  and  Japhra  —  you  with  me,  boy." 

Foxy  Pinsent  spat  on  the  ground.     "We've  fixed  the 
s  this  time,"  he  said  venomously. 


Ill 

The  fijdng  of  the  Stingo  crowd  had  been  Boss  Maddox's 
culminating  stroke  in  the  heavy  hand  he  had  pressed 
these  many  seasons  upon  those  who  named  Stingo  Boss. 
The  bad  blood  between  the  two  factions  of  which  Japhra 
had  told  Percival  years  before  had  steadily  increased 
with  Boss  Maddox's  increasing  dominance  and  position. 
Waxing  more  and  more  determined  to  crush  under  his 
rule  the  little  knot  of  Stingo  followers  —  or  to  crush  them 
out  —  Boss  Maddox  had  this  day  given  them  an  extra 
twist  —  and  they  had  made  protest  by  refusing  to  erect 
their  booths. 

A  new  Fair  ground  had  been  marked  out  here  since 
the  last  visit  of  the  showmen.  A  broad  stream  marked 
one  boundary,  bridged  only  by  the  highroad  bridge  a 
mile  up  from  the  new  ground.  The  new  ground  was 
small.  Maddox's  would  require  it  all,  the  Boss  an- 
nounced. Beyond  the  stream  was  common  land,  free 
to  all.  "Yonder,  you  !"  said  Boss  Maddox  to  the  Stingo 
crowd.  "Yonder,  you  !"  and  pointed  across  the  stream 
with  his  stick. 

It  meant  going  back  a  mile  and  a  mile  down  again  so 
as  to  come  to  the  common  land.  It  meant  worse  than 
that,  with  a  discovery  that  changed  the  first  demur  to 
loud  and  bitter  protest:  "No  bridge  except  the  high- 
road bridge?  Then  how  were  folk  going  to  get  over 
from  the  Fair  Ground?  No  bridge?  What  game's 
this,  Boss?" 


332  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Your  game,"  Boss  Maddox  told  them  in  his  stern 
and  callous  way.  "Naught  to  do  with  me  that  the 
Fair  Ground's  changed.  Your  game.  Get  out  and 
play  it." 

The  angry  crowd  went  to  Stingo  and  Stingo  to  Boss 
Maddox.  Boss  Maddox  could  not  refuse  parley  with 
Stingo,  and  gave  it  where  the  great  pole  of  his  circus 
marquee  was  being  fixed  —  his  own  followers  grouped 
about,  enjo>dng  the  fun ;  Stingo's  packed  in  a  murmur- 
ing throng  behind  Stingo's  broad  back. 

The  interview  was  very  short.  "You're  going  too  far, 
Boss  Maddox,"  Stingo  said  in  his  husky  whisper.  "This 
ain't  fair  to  the  boys.  Grant  you  the  ground's  too  small. 
After  your  tent  and  Pinsent's  there  the  rest  should  fall  by 
lot.  That's  fair  to  all.  It  was  done  on  the  road  Boss 
Parnell's  time  when  you  and  me  were  boys." 

"It's  not  done  in  mine,"  said  Boss  Maddox,  and 
his  words  called  up  two  murmurs  —  approval  and 
mocking  behind  him,  wrath  before. 

Stingo  waited  while  it  died  away,  then  went  close 
with  words  for  Boss  Maddox's  private  ear.  "You've 
been  out  to  make  bad  blood  these  three  summers, 
Maddox,"  he  said.  "Have  a  care  of  it.  I'll  not  be 
answerable  for  my  boys  here." 

His  tone  was  of  grave  warning,  as  between  men  of 
responsible  position.  But  it  was  Foxy  Pinsent,  standing 
with  Maddox,  who  replied  to  him.  "We'll  drink  all  we 
may  brew,"  Foxy  Pinsent  said,  and  sneered  :  "We're  not 
fat  old  women  this  side.  Stingo." 

The  flag  of  a  temper  kept  in  control  but  now  burst  from 
his  command  came  in  violent  purple  into  old  Stingo's 
face.  His  huskiness  went  to  its  most  husky  pitch,  "By 
God,  Foxy  !  I'll  stuff  it  into  ye,  if  need  be,"  he  throated. 

He  took  a  calmer  and  wiser  mood  back  to  his  followers, 


BOSS  MADDOX  SHOWS  HIS  HAND      333 

joining  with  Japhra  in  counselling  a  making  the  best  of 
it  across  the  stream  to-night  and  a  deputation  to  Boss 
Maddox,  when  heads  on  both  sides  were  cooler,  on  the 
morrow.  They  would  not  Hsten  to  him.  They  would 
stay  where  they  were,  they  told  him.  They  could 
not  open  their  booths  here  —  they  would  not  open  them 
there;  here,  to  assert  their  rights,  they  would  stay. 
What  was  Boss  Maddox's  game  ?  —  to  rid  himself  of 
them  altogether  ?  —  they  who  had  worked  the  West 
Country  boy  and  man,  girl  and  woman,  in  this  company 
before  Boss  Maddox  was  heard  of  ?  Were  they  going  to 
be  turned  adrift  from  it  —  from  the  roads  they  knew 
and  the  company  they  knew  ?  Not  they !  —  not  if 
Boss  Maddox  and  his  crowd  came  at  'em  with  sticks ! 
Let  'em  come !  Ah,  let  Boss  Muddy  Maddox  and  his 
crowd  try  'em  a  bit  further  and  the  sticks  would  come  out 
in  their  own  hands  as  they  came  in  their  fathers'  in  the  big 
fight  that  sent  the  Telfer  crowd  north  in  '30.  .  .  . 

IV 

So  the  Stingo  vans  remained  where  they  had  been 
driven  up  on  the  edge  of  the  Fair  ground.  The  men  for 
the  most  part  shared  their  afternoon  meal  in  groups  that 
sullenly  discussed  their  hurt.  Some  broodingly  watched 
the  erection  of  their  rivals'  booths.  A  few  gathered 
about  Egbert  Hunt,  who  had  oratory  to  deliver  on  this 
act  of  oppression.  The  winters  Hunt  had  spent  with 
"unemployed"  malcontents  had  given  a  flow  of  language 
to  a  character  that  from  boyhood  had  shaped  away  from 
honest  work  and  towards  hostihty  against  authority. 
In  the  vans,  among  men  who  sweated  as  they  toiled, 
and  worked  in  the  main  for  their  own  hands,  he  was 
commonly  an  object  of  contempt.     To-day  he  found 


334  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

audience.  He  had  words  and  ranted  his  best — . 
"Tyrang!"  the  burden  of  it;  rising,  as  he  tossed  his 
arms  and  worked  himself  up,  to  "'Boss'  Maddox  is  he? 
'Oo  appointed  'im  boss  over  you  or  over  me?  'Boss' 
Maddox  ?  Tyrang  Maddox  —  that's  what  I  name 
im. 

He  observed  a  titter  run  round  those  who  listened  to 
him ;  turned  to  seek  its  cause ;  with  Tyrang  Maddox 
found  himself  face  to  face;  and  before  he  could  make 
movement  of  escape  was  sent  to  the  ground  with  a 
stunning  box  on  the  ear.  He  shouted  a  stream  of  filthy 
abuse  and  made  to  spring  to  his  feet.  Boss  Maddox's 
hand  pinned  him  down  and  Boss  Maddox's  whip  came 
about  his  writhing  form  in  a  rain  of  blows  that,  when 
they  were  done  and  he  had  taken  the  kick  that  concluded 
them,  left  him  cowering. 

"Whose  hand  are  you,  you  whelp?"  Boss  Maddox 
demanded. 

Egbert  Hunt  looked  up  at  him.  He  was  gasping 
with  sobs  of  pain  and  sobs  of  rage.  He  looked  up,  hate 
and  murder  in  his  eye,  and  pressed  his  lips  between  his 
sobs. 

The  whip  went  up.     "Whose  hand ?" 

Egbert  cowered  back:   "Old  One-Eye's." 

"Keep  to  his  heel.  Cross  my  sight  again  and  the 
same  is  waiting  for  you." 

Boss  Maddox  stalked  away.  A  crowd  had  gathered 
from  all  parts  of  the  camp,  attracted  by  Egbert's  screams. 
Egbert  raised  himself  on  one  arm  and  looked  at  the  grin- 
ning faces  before  him.  He  got  stiffly  to  his  feet,  mum- 
bling to  himself,  his  breast  still  heaving  with  sobs.  "Me, 
a  full-grown  man,  to  be  used  like  a  dog  !  Cross  his  path  1 
—  ill  day  for  him  when  I  do  ! " 

He  went  a  few  paces,  walking  parallel  to  those  assem- 


BOSS   MADDOX   SHOWS   HIS   HAND      335 

bled.     Suddenly  he  turned  to  them,  tears  running  down 
his  face,  and  threw  up  his  clenched  hands.     "I'll  put  a 
knife  in  'im  !"  he  cried.     "By  God,  I'll  put  a  knife  in 
'im!" 
The  crowd  laughed 


CHAPTER  n 

IMA    SHOWS    HER    HEART 


Percival  suggested  to  Ima  that  they  should  use  in  a 
stroll  the  leisure  evening  that  the  trouble  in  the  vans  had 
given  him.  Some  drink  had  been  passing  as  the  day  wore 
on,  and  the  heat  between  the  two  factions  was  not 
better  for  it.  Here  and  there  bickerings  were  assuming 
an  ugly  note.  —  ''Let's  get  out  of  it,"  Percival  said. 
"Come  along,  Ima,  up  to  the  top  over  there  —  Bracken 
Down  they  call  it." 

It  was  close  upon  nine  o'clock  as  they  left  the  Fair. 
They  picked  their  way  along  the  paths  through  the  tall 
bracken  that  gave  the  place  its  name — reaching  a  clear- 
ing in  the  tliick  growth,  by  mutual  accord  they  dropped 
down  for  a  glad  rest. 

Very  still  and  cool  here  among  the  fern,  the  Fair  a 
nest  of  tossing  Kghts,  faint  cries  and  that  hon's  trump 
of  oo-oo-oomph  beneath  them ;  a  remote  place  of  silence, 
and  silence  communicated  itself  to  them  until  Ima  broke 
it  by  her  question  "  Of  what  are  you  tliinking,  Percival  ?  " 
and  to  his  reply  —  that  he  thought  of  when  he  should 
leave  them  all,  and  how  —  told  him  "Strange  then  how 
thoughts  run.     It  was  in  my  mind  also." 

Stranger  how  tricks  and  chances  of  Hfe  go  !  Look- 
ing back  afterwards,  recalhng  her  words,  Percival  real- 
ised how  events  had  run  from  one  to  another  upon  the 


IMA  SHOWS  HER  HEART      337 

most  brittle  thread  of  hazards.  The  trouble  in  the  vans 
had  sent  him  out  here  with  Ima ;  that  was  the  merest 
chance ;  that  was  the  beginning  of  the  thread. 

Very  cool  and  remote  here  among  the  bracken.  He 
had  gone  back  to  silence  after  her  last  words.  It  was  she 
who  spoke  again. 

"Are  you  weary  of  it?"  she  asked. 

He  was  lying  at  his  full  length,  face  downwards,  his 
chin  upon  his  clasped  fingers.  She  sat  upright  beside 
him,  one  knee  raised  and  her  hands  about  it. 

He  turned  his  cheek  to  where  his  chin  had  been  and 
looked  up  lazily  at  her  :  "Why,  no,  not  weary  of  it,  Ima. 
I  like  the  hfe.  I've  been  at  it  a  long  time.  When  the 
day  comes  I  shall  be  sorry  to  go." 

She  was  looking  straight  before  her.  "A  sorry  day  for 
us,  also,"  she  said. 

"Will  you  be  sorry,  Ima  ?" 

"Of  course  I  shall  be  sorry." 

He  gave  a  sound  of  mischievous  laughter.  Lying  idly 
stretched  out  there,  the  warm  night  and  the  unusual 
sense  of  laziness  he  was  enjoying  stirred  in  him  some 
prankish  spirit,  or  some  spirit  of  more  warm  desire,  that 
he  had  never  felt  in  Ima's  company.  "Yet  you  are  al- 
ways trying  to  get  rid  of  me,"  he  said ;  and  he  laughed 
again  on  that  mischievous  note,  and  snuggled  his  cheek 
closer  against  his  hands,  and  felt  that  spirit  run  ami- 
cably through  him  as  he  stretched  and  then  released  his 
muscles. 

She  looked  down  at  him,  smiling.  "Unkind  to  return 
my  conduct  so,"  she  said.  "No,  I  have  but  reminded 
you  you  are  not  always  for  the  rough  ways." 

He  had  watched  her  face  as  he  lay  there,  seen  how  her 
hair,  her  brow,  her  eyes,  alone  in  all  the  shadow  about 
Bracken  Down  caught  the  light  from  where  the  light  was 


338  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

starred  across  the  sky,  and  how  her  lips  seemed  also  to 
attract  it.  Now  when  she  looked  down  and  smiled,  it 
was  as  if  some  gentle  radiance  were  bent  upon  him,  or 
as  if  Night,  in  visible  embodiment,  gracious  as  Summer 
night,  starred,  tranquil,  cool,  stooped  to  his  couch. 

He  got  quickly  to  his  feet,  that  spirit  tingling  now. 

"Going?"  she  asked,  and  the  lamp  of  her  face  was 
turned  up  to  him  so  that  he  looked  full  into  it. 

"No,"  he  said,  pronouncing  the  word  as  he  had  made 
his  laugh  —  as  if  some  inward  excitement  pressed  its 
escape. 

"No."  He  came  in  front  of  her,  went  on  his  knees 
and  sat  back  on  his  heels.  That  brought  him  close  to  her, 
facing  her. 

"Ima,"  he  said,  "you've  got  six  —  seven  stars  on 
your  face,  do  you  know  that?" 

She  smiled,  unaware  of  his  mood. 

Himself  he  was  scarcely  aware  of  it :  "Well,  you  have, 
though,"  he  said.  He  approached  a  finger  towards  her 
and  pointed,  and  almost  touched  her  while  he  spoke. 
* '  You  have ,  though .  Two  on  your  hair — there  and  there . 
One  on  your  forehead  —  there.  One  in  each  eye  — 
that's  five.  Two  on  your  mouth — one  here,  one  there  : 
seven  stars  !" 

"  Foolish  talk,"  she  smiled.  "We  had  a  Romany 
woman  once  with  us  who  told  fortunes.  Just  so  have 
I  heard  her  speak  to  village  girls.     When  — " 

His  eyes  betrayed  him.  Concern  and  worse  leapt  into 
hers.  She  thrust  out  a  hand  to  stop  him,  but  he  bent 
forward  swiftly  and  strongly.  Urged  by  the  spirit  that 
laziness  and  the  warm,  still  night  had  put  into  him,  that 
had  led  him  on  in  mischief  and  that  now  suddenly  en- 
gulfed him  —  "Stars  on  your  mouth!"  he  cried,  and 
caught  his  arms  about  her  to  kiss  her. 


IMA  SHOWS  HER  HEART  339 

II 

He  felt  her  twist  as  she  were  made  of  vibrant  steel  and 
strong  as  steel.  His  lips  missed  hers,  and  scarcely 
brushed  her  face.  He  tried  for  her  lips  again,  laughing 
while  he  tried,  and  pressed  her  to  him  and  felt  her  twist 
and  strain  away  with  a  strength  that  surprised  him 
while  he  laughed. 

"Only  a  kiss,  Ima  !     Only  a  kiss!" 

She  was  of  steel,  but  he  held  her.  She  spoke,  and  the 
strangeness  of  her  words  made  him  release  her.  "Ah, 
ah,  Percival !"  she  gasped.     "How  you  despise  me  !" 

He  let  her  go  and  she  sprang  away  and  upright,  as  a 
bow  stick  released.  He  let  her  go,  and  stared  at  her 
where  she  stood  panting  fiercely ,  and  stared  in  more  sur- 
prise when,  checking  her  sobbing  breaths,  she  spoke  again. 

In  their  struggle  her  hair  had  loosened  and  it  fell,  half- 
bound,  in  a  heavy  cascade  upon  one  shoulder  and  down 
her  breast.  The  starlight  gleamed  on  it  and  on  her  dark 
face  framed  against  it.  She  had  a  wild  look,  as  if  her  mild 
beauty  had  suddenly  gone  gipsy  ;  her  sobbing  voice  had  a 
wild  tone,  and  he  noticed  the  drop  back  to  the  "thee" 
long  absent  from  her  speech:  "Ah,  this  to  happen!" 
she  cried.     "  This  !    Ah,  what  a  thing  I  must  be  to  thee  ! " 

The  strangeness  and  the  violence  of  her  distress  as- 
tonished him.  What  had  he  done  ?  Tried  for  a  kiss  ?  In 
the  name  of  all  the  kisses  snatched  from  pretty  girls  —  ! 
"Why,  Ima?"  was  all  he  could  say.     "Ima?" 

She  dropped  to  the  ground  with  a  collapsed  action  as 
though,  oppressed  as  she  was,  standing  were  insupport- 
able. She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  ceased  her 
sobbing  breaths ;  but  he  saw  her  trembhng  in  all  her 
frame. 

Rising,  he  went  to  her,  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder, 


340  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

and,  at  the  convulsive  movenxents  he  felt,  made  deeper 
the  contrition  for  his  careless  act  that  her  distress  now 
caused  him,  "Ima,  what  have  I  done?  Only  tried  to 
kiss  you  in  fun.  A  sudden,  silly  thing  —  I  don't  know 
why  —  I  never  meant  it  —  but  only  a  kiss  in  fun." 

He  waited  a  moment,  grieved  for  her,  half-vexed  with 
her  —  then  had  his  answer  and  was  faced  with  emotions 
as  sudden  and  unexpected  as  when  a  moment  before, 
without  premeditation,  he  had  her  struggling  in  his  arms. 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  and  answered  him.  "That  is 
it  —  in  fun  !"  she  said.  She  threw  out  her  arms  across 
her  raised  knees  —  the  palms  upward,  the  fingers  curved 
in  a  most  desolate  action.  ''In  fun  !"  she  said  intensely. 
"I  would  to  God  —  I  would  to  God  thou  hadst  done  it  in 
passion." 

He  came  in  front  of  her.  "Tell  me  what  it  is  I  have 
done  to  you,"  he  said  firmly. 

The  intensity  went  from  her  voice.  She  spoke  then 
and  thenceforward  very  softly,  as  if  she  were  making 
explanation  to  a  child,  and  in  her  answer  she  used  again 
the  term  that  went  with  the  days  of  the  "thee"  and 
"thou"  now  returned  to  her. 

"Used  me,"  she  answered  him  softly,  "used  me  as 
any  wanton  is  to  be  used,  little  master." 

He  cried,  "  Ima  !  After  all  these  years  we  have  known 
each  other  —  a  kiss  in  fun!" 

But  she  went  on:  "What  maids  are  kissed  in  fun? 
That  a  man  weds  does  he  use  so  ?  That  the  sisters  of 
such  as  thou  art  does  he  so  use  ?  That  give  him  cause 
for  regard  does  he  so  use?  What  maids,  then?"  and 
answered  herself,  "Such  as  I  am  !" 

"Oh!"  he  cried,  wounded  with  pity  for  her,  "Oh, 
Ima  —  Ima,  dear,  don't  talk  like  that.  What  can  you 
mean?    I  am  sorry  —  sorry!    Forgive  me!" 


IMA   SHOWS   HER  HEART  341 

Her  sad  eyes  almost  smiled  at  him.  "  I  have  nothing  to 
forgive  thee,"  she  said.  "  It  was  but  a  foolish  fancy  that 
I  had.  Well  that  it  should  be  broken  —  ended  that ; " 
and  she  looked  again  across  the  dark  bracken,  her  arms 
extended  upon  her  knees  in  that  desolate  pose. 

It  wrung  him  with  pity  —  his  dear  Ima  !  "But  tell 
me !"  he  pressed  her,  anxious  to  soothe  her.  **Tell  me 
what  you  mean  by  fancy  —  by  saying  'ended  that!'  " 

She  answered  :  "That  all  I  had  tried  should  be  broken 
suddenly  —  suddenly  as  a  star  falls.  I  had  not  minded 
if  I  had  been  warned." 

"What  have  you  tried,  Ima?  —  I  want  to  know  — 
to  show  you  how  sorry  I  am." 

She  was  silent  for  a  considerable  space.  When  she 
began  to  speak  she  spoke  without  pause,  without  modu- 
lations of  her  low  tone,  without  notice  of  the  stammered 
exclamations  that  her  words  broke  from  him. 

"Hear  me,  then,"  she  said.  "The  thing  is  no  more 
mine  —  thou  mayst  know  it.  To  what  shall  I  go  back 
for  when  I  first  knew  that  I  loved  thee  ?  — " 

"/wa/" 

"Why,  from  the  first  I  knew  it  and  began  to  try  to  fit 
me  for  thee.  Why  went  I  to  shut  myself  in  roofs  and 
walls,  to  learn  hard  books  and  gentle  ways  and  how  to 
speak  in  thy  fasluon  ?  —  so  thou  shouldst  not  scorn  me, 
so  I  might  make  me  to  be  seemly  in  thy  sight  — " 

"Ima!    I  never  dreamt  —  .'  " 

" —  Why  have  I  gone  my  ways  so  —  winter  by  winter 
leaving  my  father's  van  ?  Because  I  loved  thee  since  I 
first   saw   thee  — " 

"Don't!  Don't!"  he  cried.  There  was  something 
completely  terrible  to  him  in  this  avowal  from  a  woman 
■ — immodest,  shameful,  horrible — that  must  cause  her 
violation  of  her  most  sacred  feeHngs  as  they  would  be 


342  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

violated  were  she  thrust  naked  before  him ;  that  caused 
him  agony  for  her  suffering,  and  agony  that  he  should 
see  it,  as  he  would  endure  agony  for  her  and  for  himself 
if  made  to  see  her  nudity.  "Don't,  Ima  !  Don't!  I 
understand  —  I  see  everything  now.  I  ought  to  have 
known  !" 

But  she  went  on  —  it  might  have  been  some  requiem 
she  made  to  some  poor  treasured  thing  now  dead  in  her 
extended  arms.     She  went  on:  ''Because  I  loved  thee 

—  ah,  worshipped  all  thy  doings,  all  thy  looks  —  loved 
thee  with  all  the  love  that  men  and  women  love  —  as 
mothers  love,  as  lovers  love,  as  friends  love,  as  brothers 
love,  —  there  is  no  love  but  I  have  loved  thee  with  it, 
and  I  have  thought  them  all  and  loved  thee  with  each 
one  the  better  to  enjoy  my  love  — " 

" — Why  cried  I  'this  to  happen  !'  Because  by  thy 
kiss  I  saw  that  I  was  nothing  to  thee  —  and  less  than 
nothing.  All  my  poor  trying  suddenly  proved  of  no 
avail.  All  my  poor  fancy  that  haply  thou  mightst 
turn  to  me  if  I  could  be  worthy  of  thee  suddenly  gone 
to  dust  that  the  winds  sport.  Why  cried  I  'ended 
that!'—" 

She  sighed  very  deeply.  Her  trembHng  had  in  some 
degree  communicated  itself  to  him.  He  trembled  for 
the  shame  he  knew  she  must  be  suffering,  and  for  the 
effect  upon  him  that  her  gentle,  even  voice  had,  croon- 
ing its  tragedy  in  the  darkness  of  their  remote  and  silent 
situation,  and  for  the  effect  upon  him  of  that  long  sigh 

—  rising  and  then  falling  away  to  tiniest  sound,  as  it  had 
been  the  passing  of  some  spirit  released  to  glide  away 
across  the  bracken. 

"—Why  cried  I  'ended  that'?  "  and  then  her  long, 
sad  sigh;   and  then  :   "Because  all  is  nought,  little  mas- 


IMA  SHOWS  HER  HEART      343 

ter ;"  and  he  saw  her  fingers  extend  and  her  head  bow  a 
little.  ... 

She  arose  then,  slowly,  and  he  went  back  to  give  her 
room.  Her  hair  had  sUpped  the  last  coil  that  held  it, 
and  was  in  a  black  sheen  to  her  waist  before  one  shoulder 
and  in  a  black  sheen  to  her  waist  behind  her  back.  She 
began  to  loop  it  up  with  deft  but  tired  fingers  and  looked 
at  him  while  she  twined  it.  Her  face  was  very  kind  to 
him ;  the  stars  caught  it,  and  he  saw  those  stars  upon  her 
mild  mouth  that  had  tricked  him  to  his  wanton  act : 
they  seemed  to  show  her  almost  smiling  at  him. 

He  asked  :    "Are  we  going  now?" 

She  smiled  then,  gently.  "Nay,"  she  said.  "I  have 
left  my  poor  secrets  here  —  suffer  me  to  go  alone." 
Then  turned  and  left  him ;  and  he  watched  her  form 
swiftly  merging  to  the  darkness  —  now  high  among  the 
bracken,  now  lower  and  lower  yet,  as  though  it  were  a 
deepening  pool  she  entered.     Now  gone. 

Ill 

It  seemed  to  Percival,  left  alone,  as  if  some  horrible 
and  most  oppressive  trouble  had  befallen  him.  This 
piteous  thing  had  struck  so  suddenly  that  for  some  mo- 
ments he  remained  only  numbed  by  it,  as  numbness  pre- 
cedes the  onset  of  pain  from  a  blow.  When  the  full  mean- 
ing returned  to  him,  "Good  God!"  he  cried  aloud, 
"What  a  thing  to  have  happened  !"  and  most  tenderly — 
with  increasing  tenderness,  with  increasing  grief  —  he 
went  through  all  she  had  revealed  and  how  she  had 
revealed  it.  It  was  surely  the  most  monstrous  pitiful 
thing  that  ever  could  be,  her  secret  plots  and  strivings 
to  fit  herself  for  what  she  yearned  —  tasking  herself  in 
"gentle  ways,"  in  speech  of  his  fashion,  in  hard  books,  in 


344  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

the  life  between  walls  and  under  roofs ;  he  ached  for  htr 
in  every  bone  as  he  thought  of  her  thus  schooKng  her- 
self—  for  him.  "Oh,  horrible,  horrible  !"  he  muttered, 
writhing  for  her  to  remember  all  her  little  cares  for  him 
—  her  attention  to  Ms  clothes,  her  concern  that  he  should 
not  get  into  "rough  ways"  ;  horrible  !  horrible  !  now  that 
he  knew  their  loving  purpose.  And  then  her  revelation 
of  it !  He  must  rise  and  pace,  the  better  to  endure  the 
recollection  of  that.  How  terribly  she  struggled  in  his 
arms  !  "God,  what  a  beast  a  man  can  be  !"  he  cried. 
What  agony  must  have  wrung  that  cry,  "Ah,  Percival, 
how  you  must  despise  me!"  What  agony  that  "This 
to  happen!"  What  pain,  what  bleeding  of  her  heart, 
that  lamentable  ending  —  "Because  all  is  naught,  Httle 
master!"  Happy,  happy  time  when  first  she  used  to 
call  him  by  that  quaint  endearment;  in  what  travail, 
in  what  blackness,  it  had  come  from  her  now  !  What  had 
she  done?  Why  fastened  such  a  love  upon  him  whose 
love  was  utterly  pledged  away  ?  Nay,  the  torment  was 
What  had  he  done  ?  What  vile  and  brutal  ends  had  he 
used  to  knock  her  to  her  senses  ?  What  manner  of  S}tii- 
pathy  had  he  given  her  when  she  lay  bleeding  ? 

"I  must  go  to  her,"  he  said  abruptly ;  and  at  the  best 
speed  the  darkness  would  admit  he  twisted  his  way 
through  the  paths  among  the  bracken  towards  the  dis- 
tant nest  of  hghts. 


CHAPTER  III 

PERCIVAL    SHOWS    HIS    FISTS 


He  ran  in  two  moods.  First  he  was  earnest  above  all 
things  to  hold  her  hands  and  comfort  her  —  to  explain, 
to  soothe,  to  endear.  To  hold  her  hands  and  tell  her  how 
fond,  how  very,  very  fond  he  was  of  her,  of  how  they 
should  be  sister  and  brother,  and  the  happiest  and  fondest 
sister  and  brother  that  ever  were.  To  thank  her,  thank 
her  for  all  her  sweet,  devoted  ways.  To  tell  her  how 
good  she  was,  how  he  admired  her.  That  was  one  mood. 
The  other  was  a  savage  and  burning  anger  at  himself, 
partly  for  his  wanton  act  towards  her,  partly  born  of  his 
agony  of  discomfort  at  the  revelation  she  had  made. 
The  moods  were  intermingled.  He  yearned  to  comfort 
her  for  her  suffering,  he  writhed  to  think  he  had  wit- 
nessed that  suffering.  He  was  in  the  one  part  utter 
tenderness  towards  her  —  in  the  other  flame,  furious 
flame,  most  eager  for  vent. 

The  tricks  and  chances  of  Hfe  had  fuel  for  the  flame, 
not  outlet  for  the  tenderness,  as  he  came  to  the  nest  of 
lights. 

He  went  quickly  to  Japhra's  van.  It  was  end-on  to 
him  as  he  approached ;  and  as  he  came  to  the  shafts  he 
saw  a  group  of  men  there  talking,  —  Japhra,  Stingo, 
Boss  Maddox.  He  supposed  —  and  was  confirmed  by 
the  words  he  caught  as  he  passed  them  —  that  they  were 
discussing    the   dispute.     "I'll    ask  Pinsent,"  he  heard 

345 


346  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Boss  Maddox  say,  and  saw  and  heard  him  turn  and  call 
"Pinsent!  Here,  Foxy,  where  are  you?"  as  though 
Foxy  Pinsent  had  been  of  the  group  a  moment  before. 

He  passed  quickly  to  the  tail  of  the  van  and  himself 
found  Pinsent.  "Angry,  my  pretty  duck?"  Foxy  Pin- 
sent  was  saying.     "Angry?     Chuck!  chuck!" 

It  was  to  Ima  that  he  was  sa>ing  it ;  and  with  his  last 
words,  lolling  against  the  entrance  steps,  he  put  out  a 
hand  to  chuck  her  chin.  She  stepped  out  of  his  reach, 
and  in  relief  cried,  "Ah,  Percival!"  as  Percival  ap- 
proached. 

Flame,  furious  flame  most  eager  for  vent ! 

Choked  for  words  by  the  flame's  fierce  leap  and  burn, 
"Clear  out  of  this!"  Percival  said. 

Foxy  Pinsent  turned  his  head  slowly  from  Ima  to  Per- 
cival and  looked  Percival  coolly  up  and  down  with  the 
foxy  smile.  He  put  his  elbows  back  to  lean  against  the 
van,  and  very  deliberately  crossed  one  foot  over  the  other. 
"Go  to  hell,  won't  you?"  he  said  mildly. 

It  was  a  double  smart  he  took  to  wipe  the  studied 
insolence  from  his  face  and  to  plant  venom  there.  Per- 
cival's  open  hand  that  struck  his  mouth  —  a  tough, 
vicious  jolt  with  the  arm  half-crooked,  a  boxer's  hit 
—  drove  his  head  against  the  van;  and  his  "Ah,  curse 
you!"  followed  the  sharp  smack  and  thud  quick  as  if 
the  three  sounds  —  clip,  thud,  hiss  —  belonged  to  some 
instrument  discharged. 

He  sprang  forward,  head  back,  hitting  quickly  with 
both  hands,  like  the  rare  boxer  he  was  —  feinted  with 
his  right,  drove  his  left  against  Percival's  forehead,  took 
a  sharp  one-two!  on  mouth  and  throat,  and  they  were 
engaged,  fighting  close,  fighting  hard,  and  savage  and 
glad,  and  fierce  and  exultant,  each  of  them,  at  last  to 
spring  their  common  hate. 


PERCIVAL  SHOWS  HIS   FISTS  347 

In  its  suddenness  and  fury,  in  its  briefness  and  the 
manner  of  its  check,  the  thing  was  Hke  the  sudden  wooj ! 
of  flame  of  a  spark  to  a  handful  of  gunpowder.  There  is 
the  belch  and  bHnding  flash  of  heat,  then  the  thick  cloud 
of  smoke.  There  was  the  swift  drum  of  blows,  then  the 
rush  of  feet  —  Stingo,  Japhra,  Boss  Ma,ddox,  men  from 
here,  men  from  there,  in  that  trap-door  swiftness  with 
which  commotion  throws  up  a  crowd  —  and  the  two  were 
grasped  and  pulled  apart  and  held  apart,  struggling  like 
terriers  that  have  had  the  first  taste  of  blood  and  to 
collect  the  glut  are  gone  blind  to  blows  or  authority. 

Stingo  from  behind  threw  his  two  immense  arms  about 
Percival  and  leant  with  all  his  weight  the  better  to  lock 
them.  Boss  Maddox  thrust  his  tall  form  before  Pinsent, 
and  snatched  a  wrist  and  gripped  it  in  his  long  fingers. 
Japhra  was  at  Percival's  hands  that  tore  at  Stingo's. 

''Lay  on  here,  some  of  you!"  Boss  Maddox  called, 
struggling  with  Pinsent's  arm.  "Get  that  other  arm! 
• —  Dago  !  Frenchy  !  Jackson  !  Darkie  !  Look  alive 
with  it !  Drop  it,  Foxy  !  Drop  it !  What  the  devil's 
up  with  you?" 

And  Stingo's  strained  whispers,  in  jerks  and  gusts  by 
reason  of  his  exertions:  "Easy,  Percival!  Easy  with 
it !  Easy,  I  say  !  You  can't  shift  me,  boy  !  Get  that 
hand,  Japhra!     Get  that  hand!" 

Then  the  smoke  clears  and  there  remains  only  the 
acrid  smell  of  the  burning,  and  the  sense  of  heat. 

The  two  were  dragged  apart  till  a  safe  space  separated 
them  and  they  fronted  each  other  before  the  groups 
about  them  —  their  faces  furious,  their  bodies  still,  but 
their  hands  plucking  at  the  hands  that  held  them  as  they 
made  their  answers. 

"Struck  me!"  Foxy  Pinsent  shouted.  "Struck  me! 
By  God  !    I'll  teach  him  !    I've  been  saving  it  up  for 


348  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

him  a  long  time.  Let  me  go,  Boss  !  What's  the  sense 
of  holding  me  Hke  this?  Struck  me,  the  whelp,  I  tell 
you  !  I've  got  to  have  him  first  or  last !  Let  me 
go!" 

And  Percival :  "And  more  to  give  you,  Pinsent ! 
Teach  me,  eh  ?  If  I  could  get !  —  Japhra  !  Stingo  ! 
It's  no  business  of  yours,  this !  Damn  your  inter- 
ference!     Japhra!    Japhra!    Let  go  my  hands!" 

They  cooled  a  little  as  the  hands  still  held  them  and 
their  explanations  were  demanded.  Boss  Maddox  left 
Pinsent  to  other  constraint  and  came  and  stood  in  the 
Httle  space  between  the  two  groups,  hands  behind  his 
back  in  the  familiar  posture,  shoulders  slightly  hunched, 
head  on  one  side,  and  turning  it  this  way  and  that  as 
Percival  or  Pinsent  spoke. 

Presently  he  looked  at  Stingo.  "That  boy's  right," 
he  said,  with  a  jerk  back  at  Pinsent.  "He's  been  struck. 
He's  Foxy.  This  can't  end  here.  He's  got  to  have  his 
rights." 

"  He'll  get  'em,"  Stingo  said,  with  as  much  grimness  as 
fiis  huskiness  could  convey.  "He'll  get  'em  if  I  let  this 
lot  loose.     Don't  you  let  him  worry.  Boss." 

Boss  Maddox  turned  squarely  on  Pinsent.  "Give  it 
a  rest  till  the  morning.  Foxy.  You  boys  can't  fight  in 
this  darkness  —  not  you  two." 

Pinsent  laughed:  "I'm  not  going  to  fight  him.  I'm 
going  to  thrash  liim." 

"Let  me  go,  Japhra!  Boss,  let's  have  hands  off! 
It's  our  show  —  no  one  else's." 

Boss  Maddox  went  back  to  his  first  contention.  "This 
can't  end  here.  Stingo, "  and  Japhra  answered  him : 
"Nay,  there's  blood  to  be  let,  Boss.  We  can't  stop  it 
—  nor  have  call  to."  He  released  Percival  while  he 
spoke,  but  kept  a  hand  on  him,  and  motioned  Stingo's 


I 


PERCIVAL   SHOWS   HIS   FISTS  349 

arms  away.  He  spoke  in  his  slow  habit,  and  with  seem- 
ing reluctance,  but  there  was  a  glimmer  of  relish  in  his 
voice.     "They've  to  settle  it.  Boss." 

"Will  you  fight  him,  Pinsent?"  Boss  Maddox  asked. 

Pinsent  shook  off  the  clutches  upon  him.  He  came 
forward  two  deliberate  paces,  and  with  great  delibera- 
tion stretched  himself,  and  with  great  deliberation  spat 
upon  the  ground.  Then  fixed  his  eye  on  Percival.  "If 
he  likes  to  get  out  of  it  wath  a  whipping,"  Pinsent  said, 
"  I'll  learn  him  the  manners  he  wants  with  your  whip  and 
let  him  off  at  that.  If  he's  got  the  guts  to  stand  up,  I'll 
roast  him  till  he  lays  down."  He  thrust  forward  his 
body  towards  Percival  and  said  mockingly :  "  Wliich  way  ? 
Which  way,  my  pretty  gentleman?" 

Percival's  face  was  a  white  lamp  in  the  dusky  night. 
"Give  us  room  !"  he  said. 

Then  Pinsent's  voice  lost  its  deliberate  drawl  and 
rasped  out  in  a  rasp  that  showed  his  breeding  and  showed 
his  hate  :  "I  want  light  to  serve  you  up,  my  gentleman  ! 
Light  and  a  pair  of  shoes  !  Christ !  I've  waited  too 
long  for  this  to  spoil  it.  I've  a  pattern  to  put  on  that 
pretty  face  of  yours  —  not  in  this  dark.  Where'll  I 
fight  him.  Boss  ?     Where  ?  " 

"Along  the  road  in  the  morning." 

Percival  came  up.  "I'll  not  wait,  Boss.  You've 
heard  him.     I'll  not  wait." 

Pinsent  rasped:  "Morning  be  withered!  Now! 
Now,  while  I'm  hot.     Where'll  I  fight  him?" 

Boss  Maddox  peered  at  his  watch,  then  looked  across 
the  booths.  "Nigh  midnight  —  few  left  yonder.  We'll 
be  shut  down  in  twenty  minutes.     At  one  o'clock." 

And  Japhra,  a  strange  tremble  in  his  voice:  "In 
your  tent,  Boss.  The  boys  will  want  to  watch  this. 
Room  there,  and  good  light." 


350  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Boss  Maddox  turned  to  Pinsent :  "  Good  for  you  ? 
The  circus  tent?" 

"The  place  for  it,"  Pinsent  said.  "Sharp  at  one. 
Japhra,  you  and  me  are  ring  men;  come  and  settle  a 
point." 

"Come  thou  to  me,"  Japhra  answered  him  sturdily. 
"Thou  and  I!  —  I  knew  the  ring,  the  knuckle  ring, 
before  thou  sucked." 

"Come  to  the  tent,"  Boss  Maddox  interposed.  "Best 
settle  there." 

Japhra  took  Percival  a  space  away.  "Lay  thee  down," 
he  said.  His  voice  was  frankly  trembling  now,  and  he 
pressed  both  Percival's  hands  in  his.  "Bide  by  my 
words;  bide  by  them.  Lay  thee  down  till  I  return  to 
thee.     Forget  thy  spite  against  yonder  fox.     Ima!" 

She  was  at  his  side,  her  hands  clasped  together,  her 
face  white  and  strained. 

"Forget  him  his  spite,  and  what  comes,  Ima.  While 
he  hes,  with  a  rug  and  with  his  boots  from  his  feet,  bide 
thou  there  and  read  to  him  —  Crusoe,  eh  ?  Stingo  and 
I  will  make  for  thee,  master.    I  am  not  long  gone." 


CHAPTER  IV 

FOXY   PINSENT    V.    JAPHRA's    GENTLEMAN 

I 

Visitors  to  the  booths  who  had  stayed  late  that  night 
went  home  complaining  of  the  abruptness  with  which 
the  shows  were  closed  and  of  the  uncouth  way  in  which 
showmen  who  had  fawned  and  flattered  for  their  patron- 
age suddenly  seemed  no  more  occupied  with  them  than 
to  bustle  them  off  the  ground  and  set  their  faces  town- 
wards. 

But  visitors  were  not  in  the  line  of  communication  that 
flashed  that  amazing  news  around  the  camp : 

"Heard  it?" 

"No!" 

"Foxy  Pinsent's  to  fight  Japhra's  Gentleman  in  the 
marquee  !" 

"What  of  it?" 

"What  of  it,  yer  muddy  thick  ?  What  of  it  ?  Not  a 
show  —  private  !     Had  a  scrap  and  to  fight  it  out ! " 

"Eh?     Fac'?     No!    When?" 

"One  o'clock.  WTien  the  ground's  clear."  And,  with 
a  nod  at  the  sightseers,  "Get  'em  out,  mate  !  Get  'em 
out !     Stars  and  stripes  !     What  a  knock-out !" 

So,  as  the  Fiery  Cross  among  the  Highland  glens 
rushed  with  incredible  swiftness,  leaving  in  its  wake  a 
trail  of  mad  commotion,  the  message  flashed  from  mouth 
to  mouth,  booth  to  booth,  van  to  van  —  received  with 
utter  incredulity,  grasped  with  wildest  excitement, 
relished  with  a  zeal  that  caused  every  other  thought  and 

351 


352  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

object  to  be  abandoned,  and  resulted  in  a  tide  of  fever- 
ish agitation  to  be  at  leisure  for  details  and  for  the  business 
that  drove  out  naphtha  flares  and  visitors  alike  as  it  swept 
across  the  ground.  For  there  was  more  in  the  fight  than 
the  rare  thrill  of  fight  itself.  It  was  accepted  everywhere 
as  the  meeting  by  champion  of  the  two  factions ;  and  the 
bickerings  of  many  months,  the  final  poison  of  that 
day's  events,  rushed  a  savage  zest  into  the  appetites 
that  waited  the  encounter.  Foxy  Pinsent  was  Boss 
Maddox's  party,  coat  off  to  put  that  Stingo  crowd  prop- 
erly in  its  place ;  Japhra's  Gentleman  was  the  Stingo  fol- 
lowing, girt  at  last  to  collect  a  little  on  account  for  much 
outstanding  debt.  When,  towards  one  o'clock,  the  surg- 
ing crowd  outside  the  marquee  made  a  sudden  move- 
ment forward  and  into  the  tent,  it  entered  with  rival 
cries,  taunts,  faction  jeers  —  and  separated,  as  a  barrier 
had  divided  it,  into  two  bodies  that  faced  in  mutual 
mock  across  the  ring  that  had  been  formed. 

They  found  preparations  at  the  point  of  completion, 
done  by  half  a  dozen  principles  that  Boss  Maddox  had 
called  in,  who  stood  conferring  with  him  now  on  final 
arrangements  —  Stingo,  with  Ginger  Cronk  and  Snow- 
ball White  of  Japhra's  booth;  Foxy  Pinsent,  hands  in 
the  pockets  of  his  long  yellow  coat,  with  Buck  Osborn 
and  others  of  his  Academy  of  Boxing  and  School  of 
Arms  —  Pink  Harman,  Dingo  Spain,  Nut  Harris.  At 
a  little  distance  Japhra  stood  with  Percival.  He  had 
towels  on  his  arm,  a  sponge  in  his  hand,  and  as  the  crowd 
took  up  their  places  he  turned  and  called  a  single  word 
across  the  arena  to  the  group  within  the  ring. 

"Gloves?"  he  called. 

Pinsent  answered  him.  Pinsent  took  his  hands  from 
the  pockets  of  his  coat  and  curved  up  two  brown  fists. 
"There's  no  gloves  between  us,"  he  called  back;  and  at 


FOXY  PINSENT  V.  JAPHRA'S  GENTLEMAN     353 

his  words  the  two  groups  of  spectators  drew  as  it  were 
one  long  breath  of  relish  —  "Ah-h-h  !"  that  hardened  to 
murmurs  of  grim  satisfaction,  each  man  to  his  neigh- 
bour—"The  raw  'uns!"  "The  knuckle!"  "The 
knuckle!"  "The  raw  'uns!"  and  broke  into  indi- 
vidual bickerings,  cries  of  derision,  across  the  ring ;  and 
thence  into  a  sudden  wordless  shouting,  one  party  against 
the  other  —  a  blaring  vent  of  old  antagonism  fermented 
by  new  cause  that  made  the  animals  in  the  menagerie 
cages  at  the  end  of  the  arena  leap  from  uneasy  slumber  to 
spring  against  their  bars  and  join  their  chorus  to  a  chorus 
brutish  as  their  own. 

II 

To  a  renewed  outburst  of  that  clamour  —  the  thing 
was  on  the  tick  of  beginning  —  Ima  raised  the  flap  that 
covered  the  entrance  to  the  marquee  and  stepped  with- 
in. Simultaneously  the  shouting  stilled  with  a  sudden 
jerk  that  left  an  immense  silence  —  Foxy  Pinsent  had 
stepped  into  the  ring. 

She  stopped  as  if  the  sudden  stillness  struck  her; 
and  she  took  in  the  scene,  her  hands  clasped  against  her 
breast. 

The  ring  had  been  contrived  within  the  inner  circle 
that  forms  the  working  part  of  a  circus  arena.  The  can- 
vas belt,  some  two  feet  high,  that  surrounded  this  circle 
during  a  performance,  had  been  taken  up  as  to  the  arc 
farthest  from  where  she  stood  and  brought  forward  to 
the  great  pole  of  the  marquee.  The  wide  half  circle 
thus  bounded  was  made  the  ring  for  the  fight.  Around 
the  tent  the  lights  above  the  seats  had  been  extinguished ; 
the  great  lamp  of  many  burners  that  encircled  the  mast 
enclosed  the  ring  in  its  arc  of  clear  light.  In  the  sur- 
rounding dimness,  as  Ima  paused  and  watched,  were  the 


354  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

high  tiers  of  red-draped,  empty  benches.  Within  the 
light's  arc  she  saw  the  rival  crowds  on  either  hand; 
straight  before  her  the  gap  that  separated  the  two  clusters 
and  declared  their  enmity.  At  the  centre  front  of  each, 
against  the  canvas  that  bounded  the  ring,  was  a  little 
caving-in  of  the  throng  where  men  in  their  shirt-sleeves 
knelt.  Pinsent  had  just  stepped  out  from  this  knot  on 
the  one  side  :  in  the  other  she  saw  Percival  seated  on  her 
father's  knee.  A  hundred  men  and  more  were  behind 
Pinsent,  behind  Percival  forty  or  fewer ;  there  was  sig- 
nificance in  how  each  throng  stood  closely  packed,  refusing 
the  accommodation  that  the  ample  space  between  them 
offered  —  hatred  was  deep  that  preferred  the  discom- 
fort of  jostUng  and  tiptoe  standing  to  easier  view  at  the 
price  of  mingling.  Every  face  was  beneath  a  peaked  cap 
or  dented  bowler  hat  and  above  a  scarfed  neck;  a  pipe 
in  most  caused,  as  it  were,  a  grey,  shifting  bank  of  smoke, 
cut  flat  by  the  darkness  above  the  lamp's  reflection,  to 
be  swaying  above  the  caps  as  though  they  balanced 
it.  Here  and  there  were  clumps  of  colour  where  women 
in  blouses  of  red  or  white  clustered  together.  Sweat,  for 
the  place  was  hot,  glistened  on  this  face  and  on  that  as  if 
the  grey,  shifting  bank  above  them  exuded  drops  of 
water.  There  was  something  very  sinister,  very  eerie,  in 
the  complete  silence  that  for  a  moment  held  the  scene ; 
and  Ima  started  to  hear  a  sound  of  breathing  and  of  rest- 
less movement.  She  looked  around.  On  either  hand 
of  where  she  stood  the  menagerie  cages  were  banked. 
Dark  or  tawny  forms  were  coiled  or  stretched  there; 
in  one  cage  was  a  big  wolf,  head  down,  nose  at  the  bars, 
that  watched  the  Hght  as  she  watched  it. 

She  went  quickly  forward  to  where  she  saw  her  father. 
Impatient  way  was  made  for  her.  Japhra  was  talking 
earnestly  to  Percival,  and  they  scarcely  seemed  to  notice 


FOXY  PINSENT  V.  JAPHRA'S  GENTLEMAN     355 

her.  She  slipped  down  beside  them,  her  knees  against 
the  canvas,  and  sat  on  her  heels,  her  hands  clasped  at  their 
full  extension.  She  had  said  she  would  not  come.  She 
had  found  she  must.  While  she  had  been  with  Percival 
waiting  Japhra's  return  after  the  scene  with  Pinsent  he 
had  begun  the  contrition  he  had  come  to  her  to  express. 
She  suffered  him  nothing  of  it.  "That  is  left  where  we 
laid  it  among  the  bracken, "  she  told  him.  "Let  it  abide 
there.  Look  already  what  has  come  of  it.  If  I  had 
stayed  with  thee,  this  had  not  happened." 

But  her  leaving  him,  and  why  she  left,  and  his  follow- 
ing her,  and  what  came  then,  were  of  the  train  of  the 
tricks  and  chances  that  shaped  for  him  this  day. 

Ill 

Boss  Maddox  spoke.  "They're  going  to  fight,"  he 
said,  taking  up  a  position  against  the  mast  and  addressing 
the  gathering  in  his  dry,  authoritative  way  —  "They're 
going  to  fight,  and  you  can  count  yourselves  lucky  to 
see  it.  If  any  one  interferes  —  out  he  goes.  Every- 
thing 's  settled.  If  any  one  sees  anything  he  don't 
think  right  or  according  to  rule  he  can  go  outside  and 
look  for  it  —  keep  his  mouth  shut  while  he's  going  and 
go  quick.  Three  minute  rounds.  One  minute  breathers. 
Ten  count  for  the  knock-out.  Stingo  '11  stand  here  with 
the  watch.  I'm  referee.  And  I'm  boss  —  bite  on  that. 
Come  along,  Foxy." 

Pinsent,  who  had  stepped  over  the  canvas  and  strolled 
to  the  centre  of  the  ring  as  Ima  entered,  was  still  in  the 
long  yellow  coat,  still  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He 
liked  to  have  all  those  eyes  upon  him.  He  liked  to  give 
pause  and  opportunity  for  the  thought  that  this  fine 
figure  standing  here  had  fought  in  class  rings  and  bore 
a  reputation  that  gentlemen  in  shirt-fronts  had  paid 


356  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

gold  to  see  at  battle.  He  suffered  usually  a  slight  ner- 
vousness at  the  first  moment  of  stepping  into  those  class 
rings:  to-night  and  here  he  had  an  exultant  feeling, 
and  he  carried  it  with  a  most  effective  swagger.  He 
knew  Percival  could  box.  He  had  watched  him  spar  in 
Japhra's  booth.  He  knew,  to  express  his  own  thoughts, 
there  'd  be  a  little  bit  of  mixin'  up  at  the  outset ;  but  he 
knew,  as  only  Japhra  among  them  all  also  knew,  that  to 
his  own  skill  that  had  put  him  in  a  good  rank  of  his  weight 
he  added  the  experience,  the  craft,  the  morale  of  a  score 
and  more  class  fights,  and  that  such  a  quality  is  to  be 
reckoned  as  a  third  ann  against  that  poor  thing  —  a 
"novice."  "A  novice.  Boss!"  he  had  said  to  Boss 
Maddox  an  hour  before.  "A  novice  —  I  lay  there's 
more'n  a  few  'ud  stop  this  fight  if  they  knew  what  I  was 
fighting.  'Strewth  !  I'd  not  do  it  myself  but  for  what 
I've  been  saving  up  against  the  whelp  !" 

What  he  had  been  saving  up  came  poisonously  to  his 
mind  as  he  stood  there,  driving  away  even  the  flavour  of 
the  admiration  he  felt  he  was  receiving.  At  last  the  price 
for  that  "Foxy"  he  had  been  dubbed  and  had  endured. 
At  last  that  price  !  Folk  had  come  to  the  booths  to  see 
Japhra's  Gentleman,  had  they  !  —  A  price  for  that ! 
That  smack  in  the  mouth  an  hour  ago  !  —  A  price  for 
that !  a  big  price  and  he  would  have  it  to  the  full ! 

The  foxy  smile  contracted  his  mouth  and  eyes  as  he 
began  to  draw  the  scarf  from  his  neck,  shpped  the  long 
yellow  coat,  and  peeled  a  sweater.  A  delighted  cry  went 
up  from  his  supporters  —  good  old  Foxy  had  done  them 
the  honour  of  appearing  in  his  class  ring  kit !  Japhra, 
whispering  last  earnest  words  in  Percival 's  ear,  looked 
up  at  the  cry,  and  twisted  up  his  face  at  what  he  saw. 
Naked  but  for  the  tight  boxing  trunks  and  boxing  boots, 
Pinsent  declared  himself  a  rare  figure  of  a  fighting  ma- 


FOXY  PINSENT  V.  JAPHRA'S  GENTLEMAN     357 

cfiine.  Japhra  knew  the  points.  Pinsent  threw  out  his 
arms  at  right  angles  to  his  sides  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
Japhra  saw  the  big  round  chest  spring  up  and  expand  as 
a  soap  bubble  at  a  breath  through  the  pipe  —  the  cleft 
down  the  bone  between  the  big  chest  muscles ;  the  tense, 
drumhke  look  of  the  skin  where  it  swept  into  waist 
from  the  lower  ribs ;  the  ridge  from  neck  to  shoulder  on 
either  side  where  the  head  of  the  back  muscles  showed ; 
the  immense  span  of  the  arms,  rooted  in  great  hitting 
shoulders  that,  at  such  length  and  along  such  well- 
packed  arms,  would  drive  the  fists  like  engine  rods.  He 
scaled  a  shade  over  ten  stone,  Japhra  guessed.  Percival 
would  be  little  above  nine-and-a-half;  and  in  Pinsent's 
uncommonly  long  legs  —  their  length  accentuated  by  the 
brief  boxing-drawers  —  Japhra  saw  a  further  and  most 
dangerous  quality  in  his  armoury.  He  swung  an  arm  and 
side-stepped  to  his  left  as  Japhra  watched ;  and  Japhra 's 
lips  twitched.  The  left  leg  not  slid  the  foot  but  lifted 
it  and  put  it  away  and  down,  more  with  the  ease  of  an  arm 
action  than  of  a  leg  —  as  a  spider  lifts  and  places ;  up, 
two  feet  away,  the  body  perfectly  poised  on  the  right; 
down,  and  in  a  flash  the  body  alert  upon  it  —  down,  and 
in  a  flash  the  arm  extended  and  back  again  with  the  stab 
of  a  serpent's  tongue.  There  went  up  a  murmur  of  ap- 
plause at  the  consummate  ease  of  the  action,  and  Japhra 
turned  to  Percival  with  whispered  repetition  of  last  words. 

"Thou  seest  that?"  he  whispered.  "Thou  must 
follow,  follow ;  press  him ;  give  him  no  rest.  In-fighting, 
in-fighting,  quick  as  thou  canst  hit !" 

Earnest  anxiety  was  in  his  voice  as  he  spoke  and  in  his 
lined  face  that  was  all  twisted  up  so  that  every  line  be- 
came a  pucker,  as  a  withered  apple  that  is  squeezed  in 
the  hand. 

"Now  bide  me  a  last  time,"  he  said.     "He  hath  no 


358  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

bowels  for  punishment.  There  is  a  coward  streak  in 
him  —  I  have  seen  it.  That  thou  must  find  by  following, 
following  —  quick  as  thou  canst  sling  them.  Good  for 
thee  that  he  has  chosen  the  knuckle.  Thou  hast  used  thy 
hands.  That  fox  yonder  hath  been  too  fine  a  swell 
these  years  to  pull  and  carry,  shift  and  load  as  thou  hast 
done.  He  will  rue  his  choice  when  his  knuckles  bruise ; 
thine  like  stone.  He  will  use  his  tongue  on  thee,  mock- 
ing thee.  Pay  no  heed  to  that.  He  will  use  his  ring 
tricks.  Watch  for  them.  Up  now  !  they  are  ready  for 
thee.  My  life  is  in  this  fight,  little  master  —  punish, 
punish,  punish ;  give  him  no  peace  —  it  resteth  on  that. 
All  the  luck!" 

He  slipped  Percival's  coat,  and  Percival  stepped  across 
the  canvas  and  went  where  Pinsent  waited  him  in  the 
centre.  He  wore  the  dress  in  which  he  boxed  in  the  booth 
—  white  flannel  trousers,  a  vest  of  thin  gauze,  white 
canvas  shoes  with  rubber  soles.  He  carried  his  arms  at 
his  sides,  twisting  up  his  fingers  to  make  toughest  those 
fists  that  Japhra  had  said  were  like  stone.  He  held  his 
head  high,  looking  straightly  at  Pinsent ;  stopped  witliin 
an  arm's  length  of  him  and  turned  his  eyes  informa- 
tively to  Boss  Maddox,  then  direct  into  Pinsent's  again. 

His  covered  limbs  joined  with  his  few  pounds'  lesser 
weight  to  make  him  appear  the  slighter  figure  of  the  two. 
"Going  to  eat  him  !"  a  voice  behind  Pinsent  broke  out. 

"Going  to  muddy  well  eat  him!"  and  Pinsent's 
mouth  and  eyes  contracted  into  their  foxy  smile  at  the 
words. 

"Ready?"  from  Boss  Maddox.  "All  right,  Stingo. 
Get  along  with  it." 

"Time  ! "  said  Stingo's  husky  whisper ;  and,  as  a  hand 
laid  to  the  wire  of  dancing  puppets,  the  word  jerked  both 
figures  into  movement. 


CHAPTER  V 

A    FIGHT    THAT    IS    TOLD 


They  tell  that  fight  along  the  road  to-day.  Old  men 
who  saw  it  want  never  a  listener  when  the  talk  turns  on 
boxing  and  they  can  say :  "Ah,  but  I  saw  Japhra's  Gentle- 
man and  Foxy  Pinsent  back  in  Boss  Maddox's  time." 

I  tell  it  as  it  is  told. 

Why  (the  old  men  say),  why,  this  Japhra's  Gentle- 
man, mark  me,  he  was  one  of  the  quick-ones  —  one  of 
the  movers,  one  of  the  swift-boys,  one  of  the  dazzlers, 
one  of  the  few  !  He  come  in  tic-tac !  tic-tac !  tic-tac ! 
—  quicker'n  my  old  jaws  can  say  it :  Left-right  I  left- 
right  !  left-right !  —  like  his  two  fists  was  a  postman's 
knock.  Pinsent  never  see  nothing  like  it.  He  was 
one  of  the  class  ones,  this  Pinsent  —  one  of  the  pretty 
ones,  one  of  the  sparrers,  one  of  the  walk-rounds,  talk- 
rounds,  one  of  the  wait-a-bits;  never  in  no  hurry,  the 
class-ring  boys  —  all  watching  first  to  see  what  a  man's 
got  for  'em.  He  muddy  soon  saw,  Foxy  !  Foxy  never 
see  nothing  like  it.  First  along,  he  prop  this  quick-boy 
ofif,  an'  prop  him  off,  an'  prop  him  off;  an'  catch  him 
fair  and  rattle  him,  an'  smash  him  one  and  stagger  him, 
an'  side-step  an'  shake  him  up ;  but  still  he  come,  and 
still  he  come,  and  still  he  come;  tic-tac!  tic-tac!  tic- 
tac  !  ah,  he  was  one  of  the  quick-ones,  one  of  the  dazzlers, 
one  of  the  steel-boys. 

Pinsent  never  see  nothing  like  it.     He  come  back  after 

3S9 


36o  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

the  first  round  thinking  this  was  novice  stuff  —  going 
all  out  Kke  that  from  the  gong — and  laughin'  at  the  bustle 
of  it,  an'  Buck  Osborn  an'  Nut  Harris  an'  his  boys 
laugliin'  back  at  him.  Second  round  he  come  back  an' 
give  a  bit  of  a  spit  on  the  ground  an'  ease  up  his  trunks 
an'  look  thoughtful.  Third  round  he  step  back  slowly 
's  if  he'd  a  puzzle  to  think  about, — third  round  I  mind  me 
Dingo,  Dingo  Spain,  chip  him  friendly  while  he  pass  the 
sponge  over  him,  and  Foxy  turn  on  him  like  he  had  the 
devil  in  his  eyes.  "What  in  hell's  that  to  you?"  he 
give  him.  "Keep  your  grins  in  your  ugly  mouth,"  he 
give  him,  "lest  you  want  me  to  wipe  it  for  you  !"  He 
was  rattled  some,  that  foxy  one ;  not  hurted  much  — 
one  of  the  tough  ones,  Foxy  —  but  bothered  by  it  an' 
not  quite  sure  what  to  make  of  it,  like  a  man  with  a  wops 
buzzin'  round  his  head  —  that  was  the  like  of  it  with  that 
quick-boy  comin'  at  him,  an'  comin'  at  him,  an'  comin' 
at  him. 

Ay,  but  he  was  one  of  the  tough  ones,  Foxy  —  one  of 
the  lie-lows,  one  of  the  shifty  ones,  one  of  the  snaky-boys, 
one  of  the  cautions  !  He  went  out  fourth  round  for  to 
serve  it  up  to  that  quick-boy  with  some  of  his  crafty 
bits.  I  Hke  a  bit  o'  craft  meself.  I  was  a  Maddox  man, 
me,  an'  I  set  up  a  holler,  an'  we  all  holler,  take  my  word, 
when  we  see  Foxy  servin'  of  it  up  to  that  quick-boy  like 
he  lay  hisself  to  do  then.  Give  his  tongue  to  him  a  treat, 
he  did.  Walkin'  out  to  him  —  tiptoe  an'  crouchin'  at 
him.  "What,  you're  in  a  hurry,  my  gentleman!"  he 
chips  him.  "You'll  make  yourself  hot,  my  pretty  pet, 
if  you  don't  steady  down,"  he  chips  him.  "That's  not 
lady's  manners,  runnin'  about  like  you've  been,"  he  chips 
him. 

That  quick-boy  come  at  him  an'  he  slip  a  bit  of  craft 
on  him  quick  as  a  snake.     Side-step,  he  did,  that  foxy 


A  FIGHT  THAT  IS   TOLD  361 

one;  an' duck  an' say,  "Where's  your  manners?"  an' 
rake  his  head  across  an'  butt  that  quick-boy's  stomach  so 
he  grunts ;  an'  up  an'  hook  him  one,  an'  follow  him  an' 
lash  him  one,  an'  "Mind  your  manners,  you  bastard  !" 
he  says  an'  half  across  the  ring  an'  waitin'  for  him.  Three 
times  he  butt  him  so,  an'  each  time  hook  him  one,  an'  all 
the  time  lip-lippin'  of  him,  an'  us  boys  hollerin'  an' 
Stingo's  boys  hollerin'  an'  the  animals  in  the  cages  hol- 
lerin' back  on  us.  Holler  !  —  I  mind  me  I  was  in  a  fair 
muck  sweat  with  it. 

Back  he  goes  again,  next  round,  that  foxy  one,  an' 
"Why,  dear,  dear,  you've  got  some  beauty-spots  on  your 
face,  my  pretty  gentleman  !"  he  chips  him.  "Come  an' 
let's  paint  'em  up  a  bit  for  you,  my  little  lady  ! "  he  chips 
him.  Ay,  that  was  a  round,  that  one  !  That  Japhra, 
—  a  rare  one  that  Gipsy  Japhra  —  had  been  talkin'  to 
that  quick-boy  whiles  he  had  him  on  his  knee ;  an'  when 
he  comes  in,  an'  that  foxy  one  goes  to  rake  him  with 
buttin'  him  again,  he  step  back,  that  quick-boy,  for  to 
cut  him  as  he  come  out.  I  see  the  move  —  but  that  foxy 
one  !  All  craft  that  foxy  one  was — one  of  the  snaky  ones, 
one  of  the  tough  boys,  one  of  the  coves  !  'Stead  o' 
swingin'  through  with  his  head,  he  swing  up  and  hook  his 
left  'un  with  it,  an'  chin  that  quick-boy  one,  an'  "  Paint ! " 
he  says,  "There's  paint  for  you,  you  dog  !"  an'  lash  him 
one  where  he  had  a  little  mouse-lump  over  his  eye ;  an' 
true  enough,  the  paint  splits  across  an'  comes  streaky 
down  that  quick-boy's  face. 

You'd  ha'  thought — I  lay  me  I  know  what  that  foxy 
one  thought.  Blood  fierce  went  that  foxy  one  when  he  see 
that  blood,  an'  in  he  goes,  fierce  after  blood,  for  to  finish 
it ;  leaved  off  his  craft  and  went  in  for  to  hammer  him. 
He  muddy  soon  goed  back  to  craft  again.  Foxy  !  That 
quick-boy  shook  his  head  an'  run  back;    an'  draws  a 


362  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

breath  an'  meets  him ;  an'  throats  him  one  an'  staggers 
him ;  an'  draws  a  breath  an'  follows  him ;  an'  pastes  him 
one  an'  grunts  him ;  an'  tic-tac !  tic-tac !  tic-tac !  an' 
follows  him,  an'  follows  him,  an'  follows  him.  Like 
a  wops  he  was  —  like  a  bull-tarrier  he  was,  an'  that  foxy- 
one  gets  all  muddled  with  him,  an'  runs  back  puzzled 
with  him,  an'  then  catches  hold  of  hisself,  an'  stops  his- 
self  —  I  reckon  he  wondered  where  'n  hell  he'd  be  soon 
if  he  didn't — and  puts  in  that  duck  an'  butt  craft  again  ; 
an'  that  quick-boy  steadies  for  him  like  old  Japhra  bin 
teachin'  of  him ;  an'  when  that  foxy  one  swings  across, 
that  quick-boy  smashes  up  under  him  —  crack  I  like  a 
stone-breaker  with  his  hammer ;  an'  that  foxy  one  come 
back  to  us  with  his  mouth  split,  an'  his  chin  red;  an' 
while  he  sit  blowin'  take  a  toof  out;  an'  while  he  sit 
blowin'  get  it  drip-drop  on  his  chest  from  where  the 
blood  run  to  his  chin. 

II 

But  Percival  had  suffered  under  the  punishment  of 
these  savage  encounters,  and  under  the  immense  exer- 
tions of  that  unceasing  in-fighting  to  which  Japhra  had 
urged  him.  Back  on  Japhra's  knee,  "I've  dosed  him, 
Japhra,"  he  said.  ''He's  taking  all  I  can  give  him." 
There  was  a  sob  in  his  quick  breathing  as  he  spoke, 
and  he  smiled  weakly  and  leant  back  against  Japhra's 
shoulder. 

Japhra's  eyes  were  sunk  in  his  twisted  face  to  t^vin 
points  of  glistening  light.  His  voice  trembled,  and  liis 
hand  as  he  plied  the  sponge.  "He  will  not  drink  much 
more,"  he  said.  "Thou  art  hot  after  that  coward  streak 
in  him.  I  mark  the  signs  of  it.  Keep  up  the  dose,  mas- 
ter !     Never  such  a  fight  —  and  never  thy  like  !  never  thy 


A  FIGHT  THAT  IS  TOLD  s^s 

^  like  !  Follow  him,  son  of  mine  —  follow  him  !  follow 
him  !  A  last  call  on  thyself !  Watch  him  where  he 
sucks  his  tender  knuckles." 

Pinsent  knew  better  than  Japhra  the  tenderness  of 
those  bruised  knuckles  of  his :  he  knew  too  that  he  was 
housing  an  uneasy  feehng  beneath  his  belt,  born  of  the 
bewildering  persistence  of  his  opponent  and  of  the  punish- 
ing fists  which  that  persistence  pressed  upon  him,  giving 
him  no  peace.  He  was  sore  ;  he  had  reached  the  point 
when  blows  were  beginning  to  hurt  him  —  and  that  was  a 
point  beyond  which  he  knew  it  was  dangerous  for  him  to 
delay  proceedings. 

Again  !  He  came  forward  with  a  trick  in  his  mind  that 
he  had  seen  and  that  he  had  once  playfully  practised  on 
Buck  Osborn.  Thought  of  it  helped  him  to  his  foxy 
smile  that  was  a  grotesque  burlesque  of  itself  as  he  made 
it  with  his  swollen  mouth ;  but  again  !  —  again  that 
steel-springed  fury  was  on  him,  following  him,  following 
him,  following  him.  Pinsent  must  needs  use  his  fists  to 
try  to  check  its  rushes ;  when  he  effected  a  savage  blow 
the  jar  at  his  knuckles  made  him  wince.  Twice  he  went 
backwards  round  the  ring  —  a  third  time  and  feinted  a 
stumble  as  he  moved  his  feet.  It  made  his  chance. 
Percival,  coming  too  quick,  ran  full  into  him.  He  ducked, 
then  drove  up  his  head  with  all  his  force  beneath  the 
other's  jaw. 

The  trick  succeeded  better  than  when  he  had  seen  it 
and  marked  it  for  future  use.  Jarred  to  the  point  of 
unconsciousness,  Percival  staggered  back,  his  arms  wide. 
At  the  exposed  throat  Pinsent  drove  his  left  fist  with  all 
the  driving  power  his  body  and  legs  could  give  it ;  with 
the  dull  wup !  of  a  wet  sheet  beaten  on  stone  Percival 
went  his  full  length  and  full  length  lay. 


364  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Time  !"  throated  Stingo ;  and  at  the  word  the  facing 
crowds,  that  as  one  man  had  caught  their  breaths,  went 
into  two  tumults  of  jostling  figures,  tossing  arms,  and  of 
brazen  throats  before  whose  thunders,  beating  the  air 
like  thunder's  self,  Japhra,  Ginger  Cronk,  Snowball 
White,  and  One  Eye  bent  their  heads  as  they  came  rush- 
ing forward. 

"Time!"  Japhra  snarled  at  Pinsent.  "Out  of  this, 
thou  foul-play  fox  ! " 

"Out  you!"  Pinsent  shouted.  He  stood  over  the 
prostrate  form,  breathing  quick,  one  arm  curved  back  as 
if  it  held  a  stabbing  sword:  "Out  you!  Enough  o' 
this  !  Private  between  him  an'  me  now.  Stand  out 
and  let  him  up  for  me  !     Out !" 

"Boss!  Boss!"  Japhra  called,  and  dropped  on  his 
knees  by  Percival,  dizzily  rising  on  an  elbow.  "Boss! 
Boss  !    What's  this  ?   Order  him  out !    Have  him  out !" 

"Play  fair  !"  "Fight  fair  !"  —  with  cries  and  oaths 
the  Stingo  men  pressed  to  the  canvas,  shaking  fists  aloft ; 
with  cries  and  oaths  and  tossing  fists  were  answered.  A 
Stingo  man  put  his  leg  over  the  canvas  and  half  his  body 
into  the  ring :  a  leg  and  flushed  face  struck  out  on  the 
other  side.  Then  in  a  rush  men  broke  across  the  canvas, 
poured  into  the  ring,  and  met  in  two  raging,  foul-mouthed 
banks  that  strained  about  the  boxers. 

Boss  Maddox  thrust  his  way  forward.  "Ge'  back! 
Ge'  back  !  I'll  have  'ee  out  the  tent,  every  man  of  'ee  ! 
Ge'  back  !  Ge'  back  !  By  God,  I'll  have  the  lamp  out ! " 
And  he  fought  his  way  back  to  the  mast  and  stretched 
his  hand  to  the  chain  that  released  the  extinguishers 
upon  the  burners. 

A  Stingo  and  a  Maddox  man,  catching  each  the  other's 
eye  as  the  two  sides  bayed  and  jostled,  made  private 
cause  of  the  common  brawl,  and  closed  with  clutching 


A  FIGHT  THAT  IS   TOLD  365 

hands.  Another  pair  engaged,  and  now  another  — 
whirled  in  that  tossing  mob,  and  flung  the  crowd  this  way 
and  that  in  their  furious  grappHng,  like  fighting  tigers  in 
a  stockade  breaking  in  pieces  at  their  violence. 

Boss  Maddox's  iron  throat  like  a  trumpet  across  the 
din :    "The  Ught  goes  !    The  light  goes  !" 

It  flickered ;  savage  hands  tore  at  the  fighters,  savage 
feet  kicked  furious  commands;  flickered  again  —  and 
suddenly  the  immense  clamour  went  to  a  cry,  to  a  broken 
shout,  to  peace. 

Pinsent  pushed  his  way  to  the  front.  "Easy,  Boss  — 
I  want  that  light.  I've  a  job  to  finish,"  he  said ;  and  in 
the  laugh  that  went  up,  added,  "The  boys  '11  be  all  right." 
He  threw  his  arms  apart  in  gesture  of  command.  "Out 
o'  the  ring  !"  he  cried.  "You're  robbin'  me  of  it.  Get- 
tin'  his  wits  back  !    I'd  ha'  cut  him  out  by  now  !" 

Three  parts  supporting  Percival,  Japhra  with  Ginger 
Cronk  and  the  rest  had  taken  him  back  through  the  mob 
and  supported  him  while  they  tended  him.  .  .  .  The 
tumult  gave  him  five  minutes,  and  he  was  sitting  up  as 
the  men  returned  growHng  to  their  places.  He  looked  at 
Ima,  crouching  by  him,  read  the  entreaty  in  her  eyes,  and 
answered  it  and  at  the  same  time  answered  Japhra's 
trembling  "How  of  it,  marter?"  by  shaking  his  head. 
"No  !"  he  said,  "No  !"  and  felt  Japhra's  arms  tighten 
about  him. 

Another  heard  him  and  pressed  forward.  It  was 
Egbert  Hunt,  tears  running  down  his  face. 

"You  ain't  going  on?"  he  cried.  "You  ain't  going 
on!     Stop  it,  Mr.  Japhra  !     Stop  this  murder  !" 

Japhra's  left  arm  was  about  Percival's  body,  his  right 
hand  used  the  sponge.  Those  near  him  for  the  first  and 
only  time  heard  him  use  a  coarse  expression.  As  he  were 
some  tigress  above  a  threatened  cub,  he  drew  Percival 


366  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

closer  to  him  and  turned  savagely  up  at  Egbert's  pallid 
face.  "Shut  thy  bloody,  coward  mouth!"  he  cried  at 
him.     "Men's  work  here  !     Quit  thee,  thou  whelp  !  " 

The  ring  was  clear.  Pinsent  came  out,  sucking  a  fist. 
Percival  got  to  his  feet,  stood  a  moment,  the  blood  that 
had  dripped  to  his  chest  the  red  badge  of  courage  flying 
there  —  then  walked  forward. 

Somewhere  in  the  crowd  a  woman's  voice  shot  up 
hysterically  :  "  God  love  yer.  Gentleman  !"  it  shrilled  — 
"Y 're  pluck!    Pluck!" 

HI 

That  foxy  one  (the  old  men  say)  he  come  out  sucking 
his  fistses  that  were  gone  more  like  messy  orindges  than 
any  fistses  ever  I  see.  He  see  that  quick-boy  rockin'  a 
bit  on  his  feet  where  he  stood,  an'  he  spit  his  fist  out  his 
mouth  an'  he  run  slap  down  at  him  for  to  knock  him  off 
his  legs  by  runnin'  into  him.  He  run  at  him  hard  as  he 
could  pelt,  that  foxy  one ;  an'  that  quick-boy  stan'  's  if 
he  was  dreamin'  an'  never  see  nothin'  of  him.  Ah,  but 
that  quick-boy  could  have  fought  if  he  was  asleep,  I 
reckon  me  !  He  slip  aside,  squeeze  aside,  twist  aside 
jus'  as  that  foxy  one  reach  him ;  so  quick  he  twist,  us 
what  was  watchin'  the  ground  for  to  see  him  go  there 
never  see  him  move.  I  reckon  that  foxy  one  never  did 
neither.  He  muddy  soon  knowed,  though.  Foxy  !  He 
go  sprawlin'  by,  an'  as  he  go  that  quick-boy  clip  him  one 
an'  help  him  go  an'  stumble  him.  Round  he  come,  that 
foxy  one,  savage  with  it ;  an'  that  quick-boy  dreamin' 
there  again ;  an'  rush  him  for  to  rush  him  down  again ; 
an'  this  time  that  quick-boy,  too  tired  for  to  shift  by  the 
look  of  it,  let  him  have  it  as  he  come  fair  under  the  eye, 
an'  Foxy  jus'  swing  him  one  on  the  cheek,  an'  that  shift 


A  FIGHT  THAT  IS   TOLD  367 

him  like  he  shift  hisself  before ;  an'  he  clip  that  foxy  one 
the  other  fist  a  clip  you  could  ha'  heard  far  as  yonder 
tree ;  an'  clip  that  same  eye  again ;  an'  us  see  the  blood 
run  up  into  Foxy's  peeper ;  an'  that  foxy  one  shake  his 
head,  an'  shake  his  head,  like  he  was  blinded  with  it. 
He  shake  a  muddy  lot  more,  Foxy,  afore  he  was  through  ! 
He  set  in  for  to  do  the  rushing  then,  like  that  quick-boy 
had  done  first  along ;  an'  that  quick-boy's  turn,  dreamin' 
there,  for  to  do  the  proppin'  off.  But  he  not  rush  hke 
that  quick-boy  rush.  He  shake  his  head  an'  have  a  go  at 
him ;  an'  that  quick-boy  prop  him  off  an'  wait  for  him ; 
an'  he  shake  his  head  an'  walk  round  a  bit,  an'  ur!  he  go, 
an'  rush  at  him;  an'  that  quick-boy  wake  hisself  an' 
prop  him  off ;  an'  he  suck  his  fist  an'  wipe  his  eye,  an  ur! 
he  come  again  :  and  that  quick-boy  twist  hisself  an'  give 
him  one  —  crack !  my  Hfe,  his  fistses  was  like  stones, 
that  quick-boy's  ! 

Ah,  my  word  !  my  word  !  then  they  got  at  it.  That 
old  Japhra  —  a  rare  one,  that  Gipsy  Japhra  !  —  sing  out 
''Cut  in!  Cut  in!  little  master!"  and  that  quick-boy 
gives  a  heave  of  hisself  an'  they  meet,  those  two,  slapper- 
dash  !  slapper-dash  !  this  way  !  that  way  !  punchin', 
punchin'  !  an'  they  fall  away,  those  two,  an'  breathe 
theirselves,  an'  pant  theirselves ;  an'  that  foxy  one  has 
his  mouth  all  anyhow  an'  fair  roarin'  of  his  breath  through 
it;  an'  his  head  all  twisty- ways  with  only  one  eye  for 
watchin'  with ;  an'  they  rush  those  two  —  my  life  !  they 
were  rare  ones  !  Hit  as  they  come,  those  two  —  an'  that 
put  the  stopper  on  it.  Like  stones  —  crack!  like  stones 
—  my  word  on  it,  their  fists  met,  an'  Foxy  drop  his  left 
arm  like  it  was  broke  at  the  elbow.  Then  he  takes  it ! 
Like  a  buU-tarrier  ! — like  a  bull-tarrier,  my  word  on  it, 
that  quick-boy  lep'  at  him.  One!  he  smash  him  an' 
heart  him,  an'  I  see  that  foxy  one  glaze  in  his  eye  an' 


368  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

stagger  with  it.  Two !  that  quick-boy  drive  him  an'  rib 
him,  an'  I  hear  that  foxy  one  grunt  an'  see  him  waggle  up 
his  hanging  arm  an'  drop  it.  Three!  that  quick-boy 
smash  him  an'  throat  him,  an'  back  he  goes,  that  foxy  one ; 
an'  crash  he  goes  !  an'  flat  he  lies  —  an',  my  life  !  to  hear 
the  breathing  of  him  ! 

Life  of  me  !  there  was  never  a  knock-out  like  it ;  never 
one  could  do  it  like  that  quick-boy  done  it !  Never  no 
one  as  quick  as  that  quick-boy  when  first  along  he  come 
tic-tac  !  tic-tac  !  tic-tac  !  left-right !  left-right !  left-right ! 
Never  one  could  come  again  after  he  was  bashed  like  that 
quick-boy  come.  Never  his  like  !  One  of  the  rare  ones, 
one  of  the  clean-breds,  one  of  the  true-blues,  one  of  the 
all-rights,  one  of  the  get-there,  stop-there,  win-there  — 
one  o'  the  picked  ! 

IV 

Quivering  in  silence  the  facing  crowds  stood  while  the 
count  went. 

"Nine!"  throated  Stingo  —  scarcely  a  whisper. 

Stillness  while  perhaps  five  seconds  passed.  Then 
Boss  Maddox  opened  his  hands  towards  the  ring  in  an 
expressive  gesture. 

Then  men  came  rushing  to  Pinsent  and  shook  him : 
''Up,  Foxy!  Up!"  Then  Pinsent  drew  up  his  knees, 
groaned,  and  seemed  to  collapse  anew.  Then,  then  the 
storm  burst  in  a  bellow  of  sound,  in  a  rush  of  figures. 
All,  all  of  clamour  that  had  gone  before  —  of  exultation, 
hate,  defiance,  blood-want,  rage  —  seemed  now  to  bind 
up  in  two  clanging  rolls  of  thunder  that  in  thunder  went, 
in  thunder  thundered  back,  and  thundered  on  again. 
Percival  turned  and  saw  Japhra  running  towards  him,  an 
arm's  ^ength  in  advance  of  the  mob  that  followed.     He 


A   FIGHT   THAT   IS   TOLD  369 

fell  into  Japhra's  arms,  felt  himself  pressed,  pressed  to 
Japhra's  heart,  heard  in  his  ears  "Never  thy  like  !  Son  of 
mine,  never  thy  Kke  !"  He  knew  a  driving  mob  behind 
his  back,  before,  and  all  about  him — heard  curses,  grap- 
plings,  blows.  Heard  Japhra's  cry  ''Up  with  him! 
Up!"  felt  himself  borne  aloft  and  dimly  was  conscious 
that  his  bearers  w^ere  staggered  this  way  and  that  by  the 
flood  that  surged  about  them.  .  .  .  Sudden  darkness, 
and  sudden  most  delicious  air  and  sudden  most  delicious 
rain  was  his  next  impression  —  they  had  got  him  outside 
the  tent.  ...  At  his  next  he  was  in  the  van,  on  his 
couch,  smiling  at  those  who  bent  above  him. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE   STICKS   COME   OUT  —  AND  A   KNIFE 


"How  dost  thou  go?"  Japhra  asked. 

"Why,  my  face  is  sore,"  Percival  said  —  "sore!  it 
feels  as  if  I  had  only  a  square  inch  of  skin  stretched  to 
cover  the  lot.  I'm  right  as  rain  otherwise.  That  was  a 
fight,  Japhra  !" 

"Never  its  like!"  Japhra  answered  him  huskily  — 
"never  its  Hke  !     Thou  art  the  fighting  type,  my  son. 
Long  ago  I  said  it.     This  night  hath  proved  me  !" 

Percival  sighed  most  luxuriously.  Pleasant,  pleasant 
to  be  l>ang  there  —  bruised,  tired,  sore,  but  weariness 
and  wounds  bound  up  with  victory.  He  put  up  a  hand 
and  took  Ima's  fingers  that  touched  his  face  with  oint- 
ment. "That's  fine,  Ima  !"  he  smiled  at  her.  "I  saw 
you  crying.  You  oughtn't  to  have  been  there.  Did  you 
think  I  was  done  for  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  ;  tears  were  still  in  her  eyes. 

"Well,  it's  over  now,"  he  said  aft'ectionately.  "Dry 
those  eyes,  Ima  !" 

She  gave  a  catch  at  her  breath.  "Well,  I  am  a  woman," 
she  told  him,  and  her  gentle  fingers  anointed  his  face 
again. 

Their  caress  assisted  him  into  drowsiness.  Without 
opening  his  eyes  he  inquired  presently : 

"What's  all  that  row?  There's  a  frightful  noise 
somewhere,  isn't  there  ?  " 

370 


THE  STICKS  COME  OUT  — AND  A  KNIFE    371 

Japhra,  who  was  looking  through  the  forward  window 
into  the  early  dawn  of  the  summer  morning,  turned  to 
Ima  and  shook  his  head.  She  took  his  meaning  and 
answered  Percival :  "It  rains  heavily.  There  is  a 
storm  coming  up." 

He  dropped  into  slumber. 


II 

But  the  noise  he  had  heard  was  heavier  than  the  rain 
that  streamed  upon  the  van's  roof ;  there  raged  outside  a 
fiercer  storm  than  the  thunder-clouds  massing  up  on  the 
wind.  It  had  been  many  seasons  brooding ;  it  was 
charged  to  the  point  of  bursting  when  the  two  factions 
came  shouting  from  the  marquee  after  the  fight.  Swept 
up  with  arrogant  glee,  the  Stingo  men  paraded  with  hoots 
and  jeers  before  the  Maddox  vans.  A  stone  came  flying 
through  the  gloom  and  cracked  against  a  tall  man's 
cheek.  He  stooped  for  it  with  a  curse,  sent  it  whisthng, 
and  the  crash  of  glass  that  rewarded  his  aim  was  the 
signal  for  a  scramble  for  stones  —  smashing  of  windows, 
splintering  of  wood. 

There  came  a  wild  rush  of  men  from  behind  the 
Maddox  vans.  Japhra,  watching  from  his  window, 
turned  swiftly  and  took  up  the  stout  Hmb  of  ash  he  com- 
monly carried.  He  gave  it  a  deft  twirl  in  a  tricky  way 
that  spoke  of  the  days  when  single-stick  work  figured  at 
the  fairs,  and  looked  at  Ima  with  his  tight-lipped  smile. 

"The  sticks  are  out!"  he  said  grimly.  "I  knew  it 
would  end  thus ; "  and  as  he  opened  the  door  and  dropped 
to  the  ground  there  came  to  him  from  many  throats  the 
savage  cry  —  glad  to  the  tough  old  heart  of  him  that  once 
had  told  Percival,  "Ay,  a  camp  fight  with  the  sticks  out 
and  the  heads  cracking  is  a  proper  game  for  a  man  "  —  of 


372  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"Sticks!     Sticks!"  ;  and  one  that  came  running  past 
him  toward  the  press  shouted  to  him :     "  Japhra  ?     Good 

on  yer  !     The  sticks  are  out !     The s  ha'  come  at  us 

with  sticks  !" 

It  was  Snowball  White.  "This  way  with  it,  boy," 
Japhra  told  him  as  they  ran.  "  Thy  stick  thus  —  with  a 
hand  at  each  end  across  thy  head.  Crack  at  a  pate  right 
hand  or  left  when  thou  seest  one  —  then  back  to  overhead 
to  guard  thine  own  again.  I  have  been  out  with  the 
sticks.    I  know  the  way  of  it." 


Ill 

Weight  of  numbers  had  told  their  tale  when  Percival 
got  a  glimpse  of  the  fierce  work. 

"I'm  fit  —  I'm  absolutely  fit,  I  tell  you  1"  he  had  told 
Ima  when,  awakened  by  the  sounds  that  now  had  raged 
close  to  the  Stingo  vans,  and  recognising  them  for  what 
they  were,  he  had  shaken  off  her  protests  and  entreaties 
and  had  come  to  the  scene. 

"Lie  here  while  they're  fighting  us  !  Why,  you'd  be 
ashamed  of  me,  you  know  you  would  !"  he  had  cried; 
but  when  he  was  outside,  and  had  gone  a  few  steps  in  the 
rain  that  now  was  sheeting  down,  he  was  informed  how 
weak  he  was,  and  was  caught  and  spun  dizzily  back  by  a 
sudden  mob  of  men  driven  towards  him,  and  was  held 
dizzy  and  fainting  by  the  panting  breaths  and  by  the 
reek  of  sweating  bodies  that  wedged  him  where  he 
stood. 

He  was  packed  in  a  mob  of  his  Stingo  mates,  half  of 
whom  could  not  free  their  arms  for  use  and  about  three 
sides  of  whom  the  Maddox  mob  were  baying,  driving 
them  further  and  further  back  against  the  vans  with 
sticks  that  rattled  on  sticks  and  on  heads  like  the  crack- 


THE  STICKS  COME  OUT  — AND  A  KNIFE    373 

ling  of  trees  in  a  wood  fire.  Two  forms,  taller  than  the 
rest,  upstood  clearly  —  near  Percival  old  Stingo,  hat- 
less,  blood  on  a  cheek,  and  throating  "Hut !  Hut,  boys  ! 
Hut ! "  with  each  stroke  he  made ;  further  away  Boss 
Maddox,  pale,  grim  and  iron  of  countenance  as  ever 
even  in  this  fury,  and  using  his  long  reach  to  strike  with 
deadly  precision  at  heads  half  a  dozen  men  in  front  of 
him. 

The  two  were  working  towards  one  another,  Percival 
could  see,  and  a  sudden  surge  of  the  crowd  brought  him 
almost  within  reach  of  Boss  Maddox's  stick.  It  was  at 
that  moment  that  he  felt  a  jostling  at  his  ribs  as  of  some- 
one burrowing  past  him  from  behind,  looked  down  and 
recognised  Egbert  Hunt  —  shut  in  by  accident  and  try- 
ing to  escape,  Percival  guessed. 

"Hullo  !  You're  going  the  wrong  way  to  get  out," 
he  told  him. 

Egbert  Hunt  thrust  up  and  filled  his  lungs  as  a  diver 
might  rise  for  air.  He  peered  in  the  direction  of  Boss 
Maddox,  and  went  down  again.  "I  know  which  way 
I'm  going,"  he  said,  and  squirmed  ahead  —  feeling  and 
thrusting  with  his  outstretched  left  hand,  his  right  in  the 
pocket  of  his  coat. 

Stingo  and  Maddox  met.  Each  stood  high  above 
those  about  them  and  each  had  a  cry  of  challenge  for  the 
other  as  their  sticks  joined.  "Hut ! "  grunted  Stingo  and 
slashed  to  Boss  Maddox's  shoulder. 

Percival  saw  the  stick  caught  where  it  had  slipped  from 
its  mark  and  gone  into  the  press;  saw  Boss  Maddox 
shake  himself  for  freer  action  and  the  crowd  give  way 
from  about  him  ;  saw  him  swing  up  his  arm  and  poise  his 
stick  a  dreadful  second  clear  above  Stingo's  unpro- 
tected head  —  then  saw  him  give  an  awkward  stagger, 
saw  the  raised  stick  slip  down  between  his  fingers,  heard 


374  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

him  grunt  and  saw  him  drop  down  and  disappear  as  a 
man  beneath  whose  feet  the  ground  had  opened. 

There  arose  almost  simultaneously,  high  above  the  din 
of  sticks  and  oaths,  a  scream  of  shocking  sound  and 
horrid  meaning  —  "A  knife!  A  knife!"  the  scream 
shot  up  —  "A  knife!     Some  bastard's  used  a  knife!" 

It  swept  across  the  struggling  men,  stopped  them,  and 
was  cried  from  throat  to  throat  as  though  through  the 
night  there  jarred  some  evil  bird  circling  with  evil  cry : 
"A  knife  !     A  knife  !     Some  one's  knifed  !" 

And  then  again  that  first  voice  screamed:  "Boss 
Maddox's  knifed!     The  Boss  is  murdered!" 

And  another,  most  beastly  :  "Christ !  it's  pourin'  out 
of  'im.     Boss  !     Boss  !     'Oo's  done  it  on  yer?" 

And  a  third:  "Boss!  Boss  i  God  ha'  mercy!  — 
he's  dead!  dead!" 

And  one  that  sprung  up  in  panic  and  smashed  a  panic 
blow  at  the  man  behind  him :  "Dead  !  Dead  !  Gi'  us 
room,  blast  yer  !" 

And  one  that  sprung  upright,  held  in  his  hand  aloft 
that  which  caught  the  dull  morning  gleam,  and  screamed 
"Here  y'are !  Here's  what  done  it!  Blood  on  tht^ 
haft!" 

IV 

A  thud  of  hoofs  broke  into  the  silence  in  which  the 
crowd  stood  held.  A  jingle  of  accoutrements ;  a  sharp 
voice  that  called  :  "What's  up?  What's  wrong  here ? 
Who  called  murder  ?"  a  breaking  away  right  and  left  of 
the  mob  ;  and  into  the  lane  instinctively  formed  to  where 
the  body  lay  a  mounted  constable  rode,  pulled  up  his 
horse  and  cried  again.  "What's  up?  What's  wrong  here?" 

He  was  answered.  Scarcely  the  fearful  whisper  "Po- 
lice I    Police  !"  had  run  to  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd, 


THE  STICKS  COME  OUT  — AND  A  KNIFE     375 

when  one  that  had  knelt  sprung  raving  to  his  feet,  tossed 
aloft  two  hands  dark  with  blood,  and  shouted:  *'I  called 
murder  !  There's  murder  here  !  Boss  Maddox  's  got  a 
knife  in  him  !"  His  shouting  went  to  a  scream :  "One 
o'  they's  done  it !"  he  screamed.  "One  o'  they  !  One 
o'  Stingo's  bastards  !" 

There  had  been  mutterings  of  thunder  and  swiftly 
gathering  darkness  that  submerged  the  summer  morning's 
gleam.  Tremendous  upon  that  accusing  scream  there 
now  broke  out  of  heaven  great  reverberating  rolls  of 
sound  as  of  heaven  demanding  answer  to  that  cry.  The 
sheeting  rain  burst  with  a  torrent's  fury  —  a  great  stab 
of  lightning  almost  upon  the  very  camp;  then  pitchy 
black  and  thunder's  roll  again. 

To  the  Stingo  crowd  it  gave  the  last  effect  to  the 
mounting  panic  that  had  mounted  in  them  on  successive 
terrors  of  "A  knife!"  "Boss  Maddox 's  knifed!" 
"Boss  Maddox  's  dead  !"  "Police  !  Police  !"  and  "One 
o'  they  !     One  o'  they  !     One  o'  Stingo's  bastards  !" 

Murder  had  been  done.  The  Blue  Boys  were  out. 
With  one  of  their  own  number  lay  the  guilt.  There  cried 
to  them  "Away!  Away!",  all  the  instinct  tliat,  since 
first  law  came  on  the  land,  has  bade  roadmen,  gipsies, 
outlaws,  take  immediate  flight  from  trouble.  "Away  !" 
it  screamed ;  and  by  common  impulse  there  was  a  break 
and  a  rush  to  their  vans  of  the  Stingo  men ;  and  in  the 
pitchy  blackness  and  in  primeval  shudder  at  every  roll  of 
thunder,  drenched  by  the  streaming  downpour,  lit  as 
the  lightning  snatched  up  the  cloak  of  night,  there  were 
panic  harnessing  and  panic  cries:  "One  o'  us  !  One  o' 
us  done  it !  D'yer  see  the  Blue  Boy  on  his  'orse  ?  —  more 
of  'em  coming  !  'Old  still !  —  still,  blast  yer  !  Up  wi' 
that  shaft !  —  up  !  Hell  take  this  buckle  !  Are  yer 
fijied  ?     One  o'  us  !     One  o'  us  !" 


376  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

A  van,  speedier  ready  than  its  neighbours,  rolled  off, 
its  driver  flogging  the  horse  from  the  forward  platform. 
A  blinding  torch  from  heaven  flamed  down  about  it. 
The  constable,  giving  directions  by  the  prone  figure  — 
''He's  not  dead;  knot  those  scarves  together;  Hft,  and 
bind  'em  so"  —  shaded  his  eyes  from  the  glare;  then 
jumped  for  his  horse.  "Stop  that  van!  None'§  to 
leave  here!     Stop  'em!  stop  'em!" 

Away  !  Away  !  —  thundering  hoofs ;  rocking  wheels ; 
a  van  overturned,  and  groans  and  curses;  pursuers 
driven  down  or  smashed  at  where  they  climbed  the  steps  '- 
the  constable  surrounded  by  those  who  ran  beside  the 
van  he  followed,  dragged  from  his  saddle,  hurled  aside, 
and  his  horse  sent  galloping. 

Away  !     Away  !  —  blindly  into  the  night. 

And  in  the  night,  two  miles  afield,  one  that  ran  with 
streaming  face  and  labouring  chest  and  that  muttered 
*'I  done  it  on  'im  —  me,  served  like  a  dog  before  'em  all 
—  I  done  it  on  him,  the  tyrang  !" 


^& 


V 

Percival  was  changing  his  dripping  clothes.  Com- 
plete exhaustion  had  him.  The  bruises  on  his  face  had 
hardened  to  ugly  colours,  and  Japhra,  chiding  him  for 
having  left  the  van,  saw  with  concern  an  uglier  colour 
yet  that  burned  behind  the  bruises  and  whose  cause  made 
his  wet  body  burning  to  the  touch. 

"Bed  for  thee!  —  no  changing!"  he  said;  and  was 
answered  by  Percival :  "Japhra  !  I  saw  him  pitch  and 
drop!" 

"I  have  helped  bear  him  to  his  van.  ...  I  saw  him 
struck." 

There  had  never  left  Percival's  mind  him  that  went 


THE  STICKS  COME  OUT  — AND  A  KNIFE    377 

thrusting  past  in  the  press,  right  hand  in  pocket.  His 
eyes  questioned  Japhra  and  were  answered  by  Japhra's. 
Then  he  said,  "Egbert  Hunt?" 

"Egbert  Hunt." 

"What's  going  to  happen  now,  Japhra  ?" 

Strange  how  tricks  and  chances  go  !  All  that  day's 
chain  of  tricks,  all  its  train  of  chances,  had  brought 
Percival  straight  to  the  import  of  Japhra's  words. 

"This  night  hath  ended  this  life,  master.  Stingo  sells 
his  stock  and  back  to  his  brother  near  thy  home.  To- 
morrow, new  roads  for  me." 

Percival  scarcely  heard  him.  Japhra  made  an  ex- 
clamation and  caught  him  in  his  arms. 

"Ima!" 

She  came  from  where  she  had  waited  behind  her  cur- 
tain. 

"Help  me  here  —  then  to  Boss  Maddox's  van  where 
they  bring  a  doctor.  This  night  hath  struck  down  this 
heart  of  ours." 


CHAPTER  VII 

JAPHRA  AND  IMA.      JAPITRA  AND  AUNT  MAGGIE 


The  van  brought  Percival  back  to  Aunt  Maggie. 

Japhra  and  Ima,  waiting  the  doctor's  arrival,  watched 
and  tended  the  signs  of  how,  as  Japhra  had  said,  the  night 
had  struck  Percival  down.  From  the  moment  of  his 
collapse  in  Japhra's  arms,  his  vitaHty  no  longer  with- 
stood the  strain  to  which  it  had  been  pressed.  His 
mind  gave  way  beneath  the  attack  of  the  events  of  the 
past  hours ;  marshalled  now  by  fever's  hand  they  re- 
turned to  him  in  riot  of  delirium.  ''  Don't,  Ima  !  Don't ! 
.  .  .  No  !  No  !  I'm  all  right !  I'm  better  standing  !  .  .  . 
Only  a  kiss  in  fun,  Ima  !  O  God,  if  I  had  only  known  ! 
.  .  .  Murdered  !  Where's  Hunt  ?  Murder  !  Poor  old 
Hunt !  .  .  .  In-fighting  !  I  must  get  in  !  If  only  I  can 
stick  out  this  round  ! .  .  .  Ge'  back  !  Ge'  back  !  What's 
Boss  Maddox  yelling  about  ?  .  .  .  In  !  —  I  must  get  in  ! 
I  will  get  in  ! .  .  .  Ima  !  For  me  !  O  God,  what  a  thing 
to  happen  1  Only  in  fun  !  Only  in  fun,  Ima  !  .  .  .  Fol- 
low him  !     Follow  him  !     I  must  get  in  at  him.  ..." 

When  he  was  momentarily  in  silence  Japhra  looked  a 
question  at  Ima. 

She  answered  quite  simply:  *'I  told  him  that  I 
loved  him." 

"And  he?"  Japhra  said. 

She  arranged  the  bedclothes,  and  with  a  fond  touch 

378 


JAPHRA  AND   IMA  379 

smoothed  back  Percival's  hair ;  then  looked  at  her  father 
and  smiled  bravely  and  shook  her  head. 

"I  have  known  it  these  many  days,"  Japhra  told  her. 
"I  have  watched  thee."  He  placed  his  hand  on  hers 
where  it  caressed  Percival's  forehead.  "What  of  com- 
fort have  I  for  thee?"  he  said.  "My  daughter,  none. 
He  is  not  of  us.  Hearken  to  this  thought,  Ima.  Heaven 
shapeth  its  vessels  for  the  storms  they  must  meet.  Some 
larger  thing  calleth  that  grace  of  form  and  that  rareness 
of  spirit  that  he  hath.  What  profit  then  for  us  to  sor- 
row?" 

Because  he  saw  her  crying,  he  repeated:  "What 
profit?" 

"Well,  I  am  a  woman,"  she  said.  "My  love  is  of  a 
different  sort  from  thine." 

He  stroked  her  hair.  "My  daughter,  wouldst  thou 
unlive  the  past?" 

She  replied  :     "Nay,  it  is  all  I  have." 

"So  with  me,"  he  said.  "This  night  endeth  it.  Thou 
and  I  —  henceforward  we  will  be  alone,  remembering 
him  —  happy  to  have  loved  him,  happy  that  he  hath  been 
happy  with  us,  happy  to  have  been  a  port  where  he  hath 
fitted  himself  a  httle  for  what  sea  he  saileth  to." 

She  pressed  her  father's  hand.  "As  thou  sayest," 
she  said ;  and  after  a  moment,  bending  over  Percival  like 
some  mother  above  her  child  :  "What  awaiteth  him?" 
she  asked. 

"Some  strong  thing,"  Japhra  said.  "I  know  no  more 
—  that  much  I  know  without  mistake.  From  the  first 
when  he  came  to  us  with  his  quaint  ways  and  fair  face  I 
knew  it.     A  big  fight,  as  I  have  told  him." 

As  if  she  believed  her  father  to  have  divination,  "Will 
he  win?"  she  asked  him. 

"He  is  the  fighting  type,"  Japhra  replied.     "Victory 


38o  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

for  him.     This  night  in  the  tent.     To-morrow  —  what- 
ever will.     Though  it  be  death  —  always  victory." 
She  remembered  that. 

II 

The  doctor,  when  he  came,  showed  himself  a  tough 
gentleman  —  abrupt  of  speech,  of  the  tj^e  that  does  its 
rounds  in  the  saddle  —  who  said  "Stiff  crowd,  you! 
Regular  hospital  here.  Cracked  head  in  every  van. 
Boss  Maddox  —  he's  in  a  bad  way.  Now  this  young 
man.     Make  me  fortune  if  you  stop." 

After  examination:  "Nursing,"  he  said;  "it's  a 
case  for  nursing.  He's  gone  over  the  mark.  Head  — 
and  hands,  by  the  look  of  'em  !  Not  my  business  that. 
Stiff  crowd,  you  !  Nursing.  You'll  have  to  watch  it 
pretty  sharp.  That  girl's  got  a  way  with  him.  That's 
what  he  wants." 

"I  am  taking  him  home,"  Japhra  said;  "two  days 
from  here  —  if  that  be  wise." 

"Wisest  thing.  Get  him  out  of  this.  Stiff  crowd,  you  ! 
I'll  look  in  again  midday.  Send  you  some  stuff.  Then 
you  can  move.  He's  badly  over  the  mark.  Look  after 
him." 

Thus,  on  the  afternoon  of  that  day,  the  train  of  tricks 
and  chances  had  Percival  on  the  road  towards  Aunt 
Maggie  and  Burdon  village.  The  police,  who  had  taken 
authority  in  the  camp,  made  no  objection  to  Japhra 
leaving.  They  knew  now  the  man  they  wanted;  half 
the  Maddox  crowd  had  heard  Hunt's  threat  to  stick  a 
knife  in  Boss  Maddox;  the  blade  found  was  scratched 
with  his  name ;  a  score  had  seen  him  edging  through  the 
press  towards  the  Boss ;  there  were  not  wanting  those 
who,  their  imagination  enlarged  by  these  hints,  had  seen 
the  very  blow  struck.     Japhra  might  go,  the  police  said, 


JAPHRA  AND   IMA  381 

and  Stingo  Hannaford  too.  The  only  wanted  vans  were 
those  in  flight  that  might  have  the  fugitive  in  hiding. 
So,  while  Boss  Maddox,  removed  to  the  Infirmary, 
lay  between  life  and  death,  while  the  Blue  Boys  from  the 
police  station  and  the  tough  boys  from  the  vans  scoured 
the  country  in  thrill  of  man-hunt,  Japhra  harnessed  up 
the  van  and  struck  away  towards  Burdon. 

The  patient  ranged  wide  in  his  deHrium  during  the 
journey  —  often  on  his  lips  a  name  that  once  had  fallen 
about  him  hke  petals  of  the  bloomy  rose,  sweet  as  they ; 
that  now  struck  hke  blows  in  the  face  at  her  who  cease- 
lessly watched  him : 

"I  know  this  house  !  Up  the  stairs  !  down  the  stairs  ! 
I'm  tired,  tired  !  What  am  I  looking  for  ?  What  am 
I  looking  for  ?  Not  you,  Dora  ! — not  you  !  .  .  .  You  are 
Snow-White-and-Rose-Red  !  I  love  you,  Dora  !  Why 
do  you  look  at  me  sj  strangely,  Mr.  Amber  !  .  .  .  Rollo  ! 
Rollo,  old  man  !  —  Rollo,  what  are  you  doing  ?  She  is 
running  away  from  me  !  Let  me  go,  Rollo  !  let  me  go  !  . . . 
In-fighting  !  I  must  get  in  !  I  will  get  in  !  .  .  .  Dora  ! 
Dora  !     How  I  have  longed  for  you  !  .  .  . " 

She  that  watched  him  appeared  to  have  a  wonderful 
influence  over  him.  Of  its  own  force  it  seemed  to  give 
her  the  quahty  of  entering  the  wanderings  of  his  mind 
and  satisfying  him  by  answering  his  cries. 

"In-fighting  !  In-fighting  !"  he  would  cry.  "I  must 
get  in  !     I  will  get  in  !" 

And  she:  "  You  are  winning  !  There  —  there;  look, 
you  have  won  !     It  is  ended  —  you  have  won  !" 

"  You  are  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red  !  Dora!  Dora! 
My  Dora!" 

And  she,  steeling  herself:  "I  am  here,  Percival ! 
Your  Dora  is  here  !  Hold  Dora's  hand  !  There,  rest 
while  I  stay  with  you  ! " 


382  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

So  through  the  hours. 

"Post  Offic  "  was  the  evening  of  the  second  day  distant. 
Japhra  walked  all  the  way,  leading  the  horse  —  move- 
ment steadier,  less  chance  of  jolting,  by  leading  than  by 
driving,  Japhra  thought;  and  so  trudged  mile  on  mile 
—  guiding  away  from  ruts,  down  the  steep  hills  holding 
back  horse  and  van  by  force  amain  rather  than  use  the 
drag  that  would  have  jarred  noisily.  For  the  rest  he 
walked,  one  hand  on  the  bridle,  the  other  in  his  pocket, 
his  whip  beneath  his  arm,  not  with  the  keen  look  and 
alert  step  that  was  his  usual  habit,  but  with  some  air  that 
made  kindly  folk  say  in  passing :  "  Poor  gipsies  !  They 
must  have  a  hard  life,  you  know  !" 

But  it  was  that  each  step  brought  him  nearer  end  of  a 
companionship  that  had  gone  with  deep  roots  into  his 
heart  that  made  life  for  the  first  time  seem  hard  to  this 
questioner. 

He  would  not  smoke.  "The  reek  would  carry  back 
on  this  breeze  and  through  the  windows  to  him,"  he  told 
Ima,  come  beside  him  while  her  patient  slept. 

She  could  never  remember  seeing  her  father  without 
his  pipe,  and  she  was  touched  by  his  simple  thought. 
She  slipped  her  hand  into  the  pocket  of  his  long  coat 
where  his  hand  lay,  and  entwined  their  fingers.  "Ah, 
we  love  him,  thou  and  I,"  she  said. 

She  felt  his  fingers  embrace  her  own.  He  asked  her 
quietly:  "My  daughter,  is  it  bitter  for  thee  when  he 
criethDora?" 

She  answered  him  with  that  poor  plea  of  hers.  "Well, 
I  am  a  woman,"  she  said.  But  after  a  Httle  while  she 
spoke  again.  "Yet  I  am  glad  to  suffer  so,"  she  told  him. 
"Though  he  cries  Dora,  it  is  my  hand  that  soothes  him 
when  he  so  cries.  He  sighs  then,  and  is  comforted.  It 
is  as  if  he  wandered  in  pain,  and  wanted  me,  and  finding 


JAPHRA  AND   AUNT   MAGGIE  383 

me  was  happy.     Well,  how  should  I  ask  more  ?     Often 

—  many  years  I  have  prayed  he  should  one  day  be  mine, 
my  own.     It  is  not  to  be.     But  now  —  for  a  little  while 

—  when  he  cries  and  when  I  comfort  him,  why,  my 
prayer  is  vouchsafed  me.     Mine  then  —  my  own." 


Ill 

Aunt  Maggie  saw  that  wonderful  influence  Ima  exer- 
cised over  his  delirium.  When  Japhra  had  carried  him 
up  to  his  bedroom,  and  when  Ima  was  bringing  "his 
things"  from  the  van,  he  broke  out  in  raving  and  in  toss- 
ing of  the  arms  that  utterly  alarmed  her  and  Honor, 
their  efforts  of  no  avail.  She  called  in  panic  for  Ima. 
Ima's  touch  and  voice  restored  him  to  instant  peace. 
"You  must  stay  with  me,"  Aunt  Maggie  said,  tears 
running  down  her  face.  "My  dear,  I  beg  you  stay  with 
me.  You  are  Ima.  I  know  you  well.  He  has  often 
spoken  of  you.     Oh,  you  will  stay  ?  " 

Afterwards  Aunt  Maggie  went  down  to  thank  Japhra 
for  his  agreement  to  this  proposal.  He  would  put  up 
his  van  with  the  Hannafords,  he  told  Ima — with  Stingo, 
who  would  shortly  be  coming,  and  with  Mr.  Hannaford 
—  and  would  stay  there,  whence  he  might  come  daily 
for  news  while  Ima  remained  with  Percival. 

Aunt  Maggie  had  grateful  tears  in  her  eyes  when  she 
thanked  him.  These,  and  those  tears  of  panic  when  she 
called  Ima's  aid,  were  the  first  she  had  shed  since  sud- 
denly the  van  had  brought  her  Percival  to  her  an  hour 
before.  Trembling  but  dry-eyed  she  had  gone  to  him 
and  seen  his  dangerous  condition ;  shaking  but  tearless 
had  made  ready  his  bed. 

' '  Strange-like  "  ?  "  Touched-like  "  ?  It  was  fate  had 
ordered  him  back  to  her,  she  told  herself.     Almost  upon 


384  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

the  eve  —  within  four  short  months  of  the  twenty-first 
birthday  for  which  she  had  planned  —  he  was  brought 
back ;  and  brought  back,  despite  himself,  by  an  agency 
stronger  than  his  own  strong  spirit.  Fate  in  that !  — 
the  same  fate  that  by  Audrey's  death-bed  had  assured 
her  that  nothing  would  fail  her,  and  that  by  a  hundred 
seeming  chances  had  justified  its  assurance  through  the 
years. 

He  was  very  ill.  She  was  not  afraid.  Fate  was  here 
—  and  she  told  Japhra  he  would  recover. 

She  found  him  in  the  van,  his  pipe  aHght  again  and 
staring  in  a  dullish  way  at  the  vacant  places  whence 
Percival's  belongings  had  been  removed.  He  came  down 
to  her,  and  when  she  told  him  her  behef  he  had  a  strange 
look  and  a  long  look  into  her  eyes  before  he  answered. 
He  had  marked  the  tearlessness  that  went  curiously  \dth 
her  devotion  when  he  had  brought  her  to  Percival ;  he 
marked  now  some  strange  appearance  she  had  for  him 
and  some  strange  note  in  her  voice  when  she  told  him 
"He  will  recover." 

"Ay,  mistress,"  he  said.  "Have  no  fear.  He  will 
recover." 

For  her  own  part  she  marked  also  some  strange  look 
in  the  strangely  strong  eyes  that  regarded  her. 

She  asked  "But  why  are  you  so  confident?" 

He  noticed  the  "But."  "Mistress,  because  his  type 
is  made  for  a  bigger  thing  than  he  has  yet  met." 

To  that  —  meeting  so  strongly  the  truth  she  knew  — 
she  replied  :     "Yes  !  —  yes  ! " 

At  her  tone  he  came  a  sudden  step  to  her.  "Mistress, 
is  it  in  thy  hands,  this  thing  he  must  meet  ?" 

She,  by  the  influence  of  this  meeting,  stood  caught  up 
and  dizzy  by  return  to  her  in  dreadful  violence  of  that 
old  fluttering  within  her  brain. 


JAPHRA  AND   AUNT   MAGGIE  385 

Japhra  in  stern  and  sudden  voice :  ''Beware  it !" 

He  thought  her  eyes  questioned  him  and  he  answered 
them:  "Why  have  I  from  the  first  known  some  big 
thing  waited  him  ?  —  it  was  somehow  told  me.  Why 
beware  ?  —  I  am  somehow  warned." 

She  turned  and  began  to  go  away.  Come  out  of  the 
fluttering,  she  could  not  at  once  recall  what  had  passed 
between  her  and  this  Httle  man. 

Japhra  put  a  quick  hand  on  her  arm:  "Mistress, 
beware  lest  thou  betrayest  him  !" 

She  remembered  that. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  COLD  'UN  FOR  EGBERT  HUNT.  ROUGH  'UNS  FOR  PERCIVAI 


Ima's  nursing,  as  that  doctor  had  said,  brought  Percival 
back  from  where  he  had  been  driven  beyond  the  mark  by 
stress  of  events  and  put  him  firmly  afoot  along  the  road 
of  convalescence.  Only  one  circumstance  arose  to  distress 
those  days  of  his  returning  strength  —  the  news  of 
Egbert  Hunt. 

The  assizes  at  Salisbury  followed  quick  on  the  capture 
of  the  fugitive  —  run  to  earth  in  a  wood  by  the  Blue 
Boys  and  the  tough  boys  and  brought  back  like  some 
wild  creature  trapped  —  soaked,  soiled,  bruised,  faint, 
furious,  terrified  and  struggling,  for  prompt  committal 
by  the  magistrate. 

A  newspaper  reporter  at  the  assizes  wrote  of  him  as 
having  again  that  appearance  of  some  wild  creature 
trapped  when  he  stood  in  the  dock  before  the  Judge. 
The  case  attracted  considerable  local  interest.  There 
was  first  the  fact  that  famous  Boss  Maddox  had  narrowly 
escaped  death  at  the  prisoner's  hand :  there  was  second 
the  appearance  of  a  noble  lady  of  the  county  —  Lady 
Burdon  —  as  witness  for  the  defence. 

Gossips  who  attended  the  trial  said  it  was  precious 
Httle  good  she  did  the  fellow.  His  conviction  was  a 
foregone  conclusion.  A  soHcitor  with  an  eye  to  pos- 
sibiHties  who  attended  Hunt  during  the  police  court 
proceedings  learnt  from  him  that  he  had  been  in  Lady 
Burdon's  service  from  boyhood  and  (in  his  own  phrase) 

386 


A   COLD   'UN  FOR  EGBERT  HUNT      387 

prompLly  "touched  her"  to  see  if  she  would  undertake 
the  expenses  of  a  defence.  Her  reply  was  in  a  form  to 
send  him  pretty  sharply  about  his  business  and  (a  man 
of  some  humour)  he  thanked  her  courteously  by  having 
her  subpoeaned  on  the  prisoner's  behalf  —  mitigation  of 
sentence  was  to  be  earned  by  her  testimony  to  the  young 
man's  irreproachable  character  during  his  long  years  in 
her  service. 

It  was  little  of  such  testimony  she  gave.  Angry  at  the 
trick  played  on  her  (as  she  considered  it),  angry  at 
being  dragged  into  a  case  of  sordid  aspect  and  of  local 
sensation,  she  went  angrier  yet  into  the  witness-box  for 
the  scene  made  at  her  expense  by  the  prisoner  as  she 
passed  the  dock.  The  newspaper  reporter  who  described 
him  as  presenting  the  appearance  of  a  wild  animal 
trapped,  wrote  of  him  as  having  a  wolfish  air  as  he  glared 
about  him  —  of  his  jaws  that  worked  ceaselessly,  of  his 
blinking  eyelids,  and  of  the  perspiration  that  streamed 
like  raindrops  down  his  face.  As  Lady  Burdon  passed 
him  the  emotions  of  the  public  were  thrilled  to  see  his 
arms  come  suppliant  over  the  dock  rail  and  to  hear  him 
scream  to  her :  "  Say  a  word  for  me,  me  lady  !  Say  a  good 
word  for  me  !  Love  o'  God,  say  — "  A  warder's  rough 
hand  jerked  his  cry  out  of  utterance,  and  he  listened 
to  her  during  her  evidence,  watching  her  with  that 
wolfish  air  of  his  and  with  those  jaws  ceaselessly  at  work. 

A  cold  'un,  the  gossips  said  of  her  when  she  stepped 
down.  The  Judge  in  passing  his  stereotyped  form  of 
sentence  made  more  seemly  reference  to  her  testimony. 

"The  evidence,"  the  judge  addressed  the  prisoner, 
"of  your  former  employer  —  come  here  reluctantly  but 
with  the  best  will  in  the  world  (as  she  has  told  us)  to 
befriend  you  —  has  only  been  able  to  show  that  you  have 
exhibited    from    your    boyhood    upward    the    traits  — 


388  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

sullenness  of  temper,  hatred  of  authority  —  that  have 
led  you  directly  to  the  place  where  now  you  stand.  It 
has  been  made  very  clear  that  this  crime  —  only  by 
the  mercy  of  God  prevented  from  taking  a  more  serious 
form  —  was  wilful,  premeditated,  of  a  sort  into  which  your 
whole  character  shows  you  might  have  been  expected  to 
burst  at  almost  any  period  of  your  maturer  years.  You 
will  be  sent  away  now  where  you  will  have  leisure,  as  I 
sincerely  trust,  to  reflect  and  to  repent.  .  .  .  Five 
years.  .  .  .  You  will  go  to  penal  servitude  for  that 
term." 

Most  wolfishly  the  wolfish  eyes  watched  the  judge 
while  these  words  were  spoken ;  quicker  the  working 
jaws  moved,  lower  the  poor  form  crouched  as  nearer  the 
sentence  came.  As  a  vicious  dog  trembles  and  threatens 
in  every  hair  at  the  stick  upraised  to  strike,  so,  by  every 
aspect  of  his  mien,  Egbert  Hunt  trembled  and  threatened 
as  the  ultimate  words  approached.  ''Penal  servitude 
for  that  term"  —  as  the  dog  yelps  and  springs  so  he 
screamed  and  sprung :  a  dreadful  wordless  scream,  a 
savage  spring  against  the  dock,  arms  outflung. 

Warders  closed  about  him ;  but  he  was  at  his  full 
height,  arms  and  wolfish  face  directed  at  Lady  Burdon. 
"You  done  it  on  me  !"  he  screamed.  "You  might  ha' 
saved  me  !  You  —  !  You  —  cruel  —  !  I'll  do  it  back 
on  yer  !  Wait  till  I'm  out !  I'll  come  straight  for  yer, 
you  an'  your  —  son  !     I'll  do  it  on  — " 

A  warder's  hand  came  across  his  mouth.  He  bit 
through  to  the  bone  and  had  his  head  free  before  they 
could  remove  him.  "I've  never  had  a  fair  chance, 
not  with  you,  you  —  Tyrangs  !  —  tyrangs  all  of  yer  !  — 
tyrangs !  You're  the  worst !  God  help  yer  when  I 
come  for  yer  !     Tyrangs  !  .  .  .  Tyrangs  !  .  .  . ' 

They  carried  him  away. 


j> 


ROUGH   'UNS    FOR   PERCIVAL  389 

II 

"Oh,  five  years  !  —  Five  years  !"  Percival  cried  when 
he  read  the  news.     ''  Poor,  poor  old  Hunt !     Five  years  ! " 

He  was  sitting  comfortably  propped  in  a  big  chair  in 
the  garden  behind  "  Post  Offic,"  Aunt  Maggie  and  Ima 
with  him,  and  his  weakness  could  not  restrain  the 
moisture  that  came  to  his  eyes.  "Five  years,  Aunt 
Maggie  !  He  was  one  of  my  friends.  I  liked  him  — 
always  liked  him.  He  was  always  fond  of  me  —  jolly 
good  to  me.  When  I  think  of  him  with  his  vegules 
and  his  sick  yedaches  !     Five  years  —  poor  old  Hunt !" 

He  was  very  visibly  distressed.  "Everybody  is  fond 
of  you,  dear,"  Aunt  Maggie  said  sympathetically. 

"That's  just  it!"  he  said  — "that's  just  it!"  and 
he  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  went  into  thoughts 
that  were  come  upon  him  and  that  her  words  exactly 
suited :  thoughts  that  were  often  his  in  the  days  of  his 
sickness  when  he  lay  —  was  it  waking  or  sleeping  ?  he 
never  quite  knew.  They  presented  the  cheery  group 
of  all  his  friends,  all  so  jolly,  jolly  good  to  him.  Himself 
in  their  midst  and  they  all  smiling  at  him  and  stretching 
jolly  hands.  But  a  gap  in  the  circle  —  Mr.  Amber's 
place.  Another  gap  now  —  Hunt.  It  appeared  to  him 
in  those  feverish  hours  —  and  now  again  with  new  reason 
and  new  force  —  that  outside  that  jolly  circle  of  friends 
there  prowled,  as  a  savage  beast  about  a  camp-fire, 
some  dark  and  evil  menace  that  reached  cruel  hands  to 
snatch  a  member  to  itself  and  through  the  gap  threatened 
him.  Within  the  circle  the  happy,  happy  time ;  beyond 
it  some  other  thing.  Life  was  not  always  youth,  then  ? 
not  always  ardour  of  doing,  fighting,  laughing,  loving? 
Menace  lurked  beyond.  .  .  .  What  ?  .  .  . 

But  those  thoughts  were  swept  away,  and  fate  of  poor 


390  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

old  Hunt  that  had  caused  them  temporarily  forgotten, 
by  footsteps  that  brought  up  the  path  three  figures,  of 
whom  two  were  colossal  of  girth  and  bright  red  of  face  — 
one  striking  at  his  thigh  as  if  his  hand  held  an  imaginary 
stick  —  and  one  that  walked  behind  them  lean  and 
brown,  with  rare  bright  eyes  in  a  face  of  many  Uttle  lines. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Hannaford  !  Mr.  Hannaford  ! "  Percival 
cried  delightedly.  "Stingo!  Good  old  Japhra ! — • 
you've  actually  brought  them  !" 

They  were  actually  brought;  but  in  the  alarming 
company  of  women  folk  —  of  Aunt  Maggie,  of  Ima,  and 
of  Honor,  who  now,  the  visit  having  been  expected,  came 
out  with  a  laden  tea-table  —  the  tremendous  brothers 
exhibited  themselves  in  a  state  of  embarrassment  that 
appeared  to  make  it  highly  improbable  that  they  would 
remain.  First  having  shaken  hands  all  round  the  circle, 
colliding  heavily  with  one  another  before  each,  Mr. 
Hannaford  declaring  to  each  in  turn  ''Warm  —  warm  — 
bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  it  ain't!"  and  Stingo 
repeating  some  husky  throatings  of  identical  sound  but 
no  articulation ;  they  then  shook  hands  with  one  another ; 
then  proceeded  round  the  circle  again ;  simultaneously 
appeared  to  discover  their  mistake ;  collided  with  shock- 
ing violence ;  and  finally  relapsed  into  enormous  nose- 
blowings,  trumpeting  one  against  the  other,  as  it  seemed, 
into  handkerchiefs  of  the  size  of  small  towels. 

It  was  to  abate  this  tremendous  clamour  that  Aunt 
Maggie  handed  a  cup  of  tea  to  Mr.  Hannaford,  and  it 
was  without  the  remotest  desire  in  the  world  to  have  it 
there  that  Mr.  Hannaford  in  some  extraordinary  way 
found  it  on  the  side  of  his  right  hand  and  proceeded  to 
go  through  an  involved  series  of  really  admirable  juggling 
feats  with  it,  beginning  with  the  cup  and  saucer  and 
ending  with  the  spoon  alone,  that  came  to  a  grand  finale 


I 


ROUGH   'UNS   FOR   PERCIVAI.  391 

in  cup,  saucer  and  spoon  shooting  separately  and  at 
tolerable  intervals  in  three  different  and  considerable 
directions.  It  was  to  cover  the  amazement  of  the 
tremendous  brothers  at  this  extraordinary  incident 
that  Ima  handed  a  piece  of  cake  to  Stingo,  and  it  was 
the  fact  that  Stingo  had  no  sooner  conveyed  it  to  his 
mouth  than  he  abandoned  himself  to  a  paroxysm  of 
choking  and  for  his  rehef  was  followed  about  the  gar- 
den by  Mr.  Hannaford  with  positively  stunning  blows 
on  the  back  that  sent  Percival  at  last  from  agonies  of 
hopeless  giggling  to  peals  of  laughter  which  estabhshed 
every  one  at  their  ease. 

"Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!"  from  Percival.  "I'm 
awfully  sorry  —  I  can't  help  it.  Oh,  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  1 
Ha!  Ha!" 

Impossible  to  resist  it:  *'Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!" 
thundered  Mr.  Hannaford. 

"Oh,  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !"  shook  Percival,  roll- 
ing on  his  pillows. 

"He!    He!    He!    He!     He!"    came    Stingo,    in- 
fection of  mirth  vanquishing  the  contrariness  of  the 
cake-crumb. 

"Proper  good  joke  !"  bellowed  Mr.  Hannaford,  not  at 
all  sure  what  the  joke  was,  but  carried  away  by  Percival's 
ringing  mirth.  "Proper  good  joke!  Ho!  Ho!  Ho! 
Ho  !  Ho  !" ;  and  was  chorused  in  gentler  key  by  Japhra 
—  for  once  —  by  Aunt  Maggie  and  by  Ima. 

"He!  He!  He!  He!  He!  Looks  as  well  as  ever 
he  did  !"  choked  Stingo,  catching  his  brother's  eye  and 
nodding  towards  the  invalid's  chair ;  and  that  as  master- 
fully turned  the  laughter  to  practical  use  as  the  laughter 
itself  had  turned  dreadful  embarrassment  into  universal 
joviahty.  It  was  the  chance  for  Mr.  Hannaford  to  cry 
delightedly:  "Why,  that's  just  what  I  was  athinking, 


392  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  it  isn't !"  the  chance  for 
the  tremendous  brothers  to  overwhelm  Percival  with  the 
affection  and  the  joy  at  his  recovery  with  which  they  had 
come  bursting  ;  the  beginning  of  highest  good  fellowship 
all  round,  of  stupendous  teas  on  the  part  of  the  tremen- 
dous brothers,  and  at  last  of  explanation  of  the  real 
project  they  had  made  this  visit  in  order  to  discharge. 

It  took  a  very  long  time  in  the  telling.  On  the  part  of 
Stingo  there  was  first  a  detailed  account  (punctuated 
by  much  affectionately  fraternal  handshaking)  of  how 
he  positively  had  settled  down  at  last  —  sold  out  of  the 
show  trade  after  and  on  account  of  the  events  in  which 
Percival  and  Japhra  had  shared,  and  henceforward 
was  devoting  his  entire  energies  to  the  cultivation  of  the 
little  'orse  farm.  There  was  then  from  Mr.  Hannaford, 
helped  by  a  ledger  that  could  have  been  carried  in  no 
pocket  but  his,  a  description  of  the  flourishing  state  at 
which  the  little  'orse  farm  had  arrived  —  ''Orders  for 
gentlefolks'  little  carts'  Uttle  'orses  apourin'  in  quicker'n 
ever  we  can  apour  'em  out"  —  and  in  which  it  was 
monthly  advancing  more  and  more ;  and  there  was  finally 
a  prolonged  discussion  in  fierce  whispers  between  the 
brothers,  interspersed  with  loud  "Don't  forget  that's" 
and  "Recollect  for  to  tell  him  this's." 

Then  Mr.  Hannaford  turned  to  Percival,  struck  his 
thigh  a  terrible  crack  with  his  ledger,  and  in  a  very  de- 
manding tone  said,  "Well,  now !" 

"Well,  I'm  awfully  —  awfully  glad,"  said  Percival. 
"It's  splendid  —  splendid.  By  Jove,  it  really  is  a  big 
thing.     But  what  ?  - —  but  what  —  ?  " 

"What  of  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Hannaford  very  solemnly, 
"that  what  we  want  and  the  errand  for  what  we've 
come  is  —  we  want  you  ! "  He  turned  to  Stingo  :  "Now 
your  bit." 


ROUGH   'UNS   FOR   PERCIVAL  393 

"What  of  it  is,"  responded  Stingo  with  the  huskiness 
of  a  lesson  learnt  by  heart  and  to  be  repeated  very  care- 
fully—  "What  of  it  is,  he's  wanted  you,  told  me  so, 
ever  since  you  come  over  long  ago  with  his  late  lordship 
and  showed  what  a  regular  little  pocket  marvel  you  was, 
but  didn't  like  for  to  have  you  until  I'd  settled  down  and 
taken  my  proper  place  and  given  my  consent  —  which 
I  have  done  and  which  I  do,  never  having  set  eyes  on 
your  like  and  never  wanting  to.     Now  your  bit." 

"What  of  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Hannaford,  bringing  himself 
to  the  point  of  these  remarkable  proceedings  with  a 
thigh-and-ledger-thump  of  astounding  violence  —  "what 
of  it  is,  we're  Rough  'Uns,  Stingo  an'  me.  All  right  to  be 
Rough  'Uns  when  it's  only  little  circus  'orses  and  circus 
folk  you're  dealing  with  —  no  good  being  Rough  'Uns 
when  it's  gentlefolks'  httle  carts'  Kttle  'orses,  gentlefolks' 
little  riding  little  'orses,  and  gentlefolks'  little  polo  little 
'orses.  Want  a  gentleman  for  to  deal  with  the  gentlefolk 
and  a  gentleman  for  to  break  and  ride  and  show  for  the 
gentlefolk.  Want  you  —  an'  always  have  wanted  you, 
bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  we  ain't."     (Thump  !) 

Percival  was  white  and  then  red  as  the  meaning  of  all 
the  mysterious  conduct  of  tlie  tremendous  brothers' 
errand  was  thus  made  clear  to  him  —  white  and  then 
red  and  with  moisture  of  weakness  in  his  eyes :  why  was 
everybody  so  jolly,  jolly  good  to  him  ? 

"Why,  Mr.  Hannaford  —  Stingo  — "  he  began. 

But  the  tremendous  brothers  raised  simultaneous 
shoulder-of -mutton  fists  to  stop  him,  and  fell  into  hurried 
preparations  for  departure.  It  was  disappointment 
they  feared.  "Don't  speak  hasty!"  Mr.  Hannaford 
thundered.  "Think  over  it  —  don't  say  a  word  —  keep 
the  ledger  —  proper  good  business  in  it  —  pay  you  what 
you  like  —  make  you  a  partner  in  it  —  set  you  up  for 


394  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

life  properly  to  rights."  He  wrung  Aunt  Maggie's 
hand.  "Say  a  word  for  us,  Mam  !  loved  him  more'n  a 
son  ever  since — ";  in  great  emotion  backed  down  the 
path  taking  Japhra  with  him ;  and  in  tremendous  ex- 
citement returned  to  wring  the  hand  of  Stingo  who, 
after  opening  and  shutting  his  mouth  several  times 
without  sound,  at  length  produced:  "Set  you  up  for 
life  properly  to  rights  —  more'n  that,  too.  You're 
young.  We're  bound  to  pop  off  one  day.  No  one  to 
leave  nothing  to.  Rough  'Uns.  You're  young.  Bound 
to  go  to  you  in  the  end.     Rough  'Uns  — " 

"0'  course!  0'  course!  O'  course!"  joined  Mr. 
Hannaford,  wringing  Stingo's  hand  in  ecstasy  and  wring- 
ing it  still  as  he  led  him  down  the  path.  "O'  course  ! 
That  was  a  good  bit.  Never  thought  of  it.  Bound  to 
pop  off !     Bound  to  go  to  him  ! " 

III 

"Tears  in  your  eyes,  Percival,"  Ima  said,  smiling 
at  him  as  immense  trumpetings  at  the  gate  announced 
the  Rough  'Uns'  departure  in  a  din  of  emotional  nose- 
blowing. 

"Well,  dash  it  all,  there  always  are,  nowadays,"  Per- 
cival laughed.  "Everybody's  so  jolly,  jolly  good  to 
me. 

He  lay  back  with  new  and  most  wonderful  visions 
before  his  eyes;  set  his  gaze  on  the  dear,  familiar  line 
of  distant  Plowman's  Ridge  and  peopled  it  with  the 
scenes  of  his  new  and  wonderful  prospects.  His  hand 
in  his  pocket  closed  about  letters  received  from  Dora 
between  that  night  at  Baxter's  and  the  night  of  the  fight. 
Black  and  impossible  his  outlook  then ;  limitless  of 
opportunity  now.     Set  up  for  life  properly  to  rights  !  by 


ROUGH   'UNS   FOR   PERCIVAL  395 

a  miracle,  nay,  by  a  chain  of  tricks  and  chances  —  and 
he  ran  through  the  amazing  sequence  of  them  —  he 
suddenly  was  that !  Dora  no  longer  immeasurably 
beyond  him;  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red  possible  to 
be  claimed. 

Aunt  Maggie  broke  into  his  thoughts.  "Are  you 
glad,  dear  —  about  the  Hannafords  ?" 

"  Glad  !  Aunt  Maggie,  I  was  just  thinking  I  seem  to  be 
a  sort  of  —  sort  of  thing  for  other  people's  plans.  Old 
Japhra  planned  a  fighter  of  me  and,  my  goodness  !  I  had 
a  dose  of  it.  Here's  old  Hannaford  always  been  planning 
to  have  me  with  him,  and  here  I  am  going  sure  enough  !  " 
He  laughed  at  an  almost  forgotten  recollection.  "Why, 
even  you  —  even  you  had  a  wonderful  plan  for  me. 
Don't  you  remember  ?  I  say,  it's  in  hot  company,  your 
plan,  Aunt  Maggie.  All  come  out  right  except  yours. 
You'll  have  to  hurry  up  !" 

"Mine  will  come  out  right,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ONE   COMES   OVER  THE   RIDGE 


"Mine  will  come  out  right."  But  Percival's  twenty- 
first  birthday,  that  was  to  have  seen  the  consummation 
of  Aunt  Maggie's  plan,  came — and  Aunt  Maggie  held 
her  hand  and  let  it  go. 

A  double  reason  commanded  her.  Percival's  coming 
of  age  arrived  with  the  Old  Manor  closed  and  Rollo  and 
his  mother  far  afield  on  that  two  years'  travel  which 
Lady  Burdon  had  long  before  projected  for  her  son 
to  introduce  his  "settling-down."  It  were  an  empty 
revenge.  Aunt  Maggie  thought,  that  could  be  taken  in 
such  case ;  robbed  of  its  sting,  sapped  of  all  its  meaning, 
unless  it  were  delivered  to  Lady  Burdon  face  to  face,  as 
face  to  face  with  Audrey  she  had  struck  Audrey  down. 

That  was  one  reason  that  found  Percival's  twenty- 
first  birthday  gone,  and  still  the  blow  not  struck.  The 
other  was  in  tribute  to  the  fate  that  had  carried  forward 
Aunt  Maggie's  plan  through  many  hilly  places  and  that, 
fatalistic,  she  dared  not  hasten  when  the  promised  land 
drew  into  sight.  When  she  heard  during  the  three 
months  of  Percival's  zestful  life  on  the  little  horse  farm 
leading  to  his  birthday  that  Rollo,  before  that  birthday 
dawned,  would  be  shipped  and  away  on  his  leisurely 
journey  round  the  world,  she  was  at  first  strongly 
tempted  to  make  end  of  her  long  waiting;  at  last  to 
Audrey's   murderer   send    Audrey's   son.      Her    super- 

396 


ONE   COMES   OVER  THE  RIDGE         397 

stitious  reliance  on  fate  prevented  her.  With  fate  she 
had  worked  hand  in  hand  through  these  long  years. 
Vengeance  had  been  nothing  had  she  taken  it  at  the 
outset  when  Audrey  lay  cold  and  still  in  the  room  in  the 
Holloway  Road.  Under  fate's  guidance  it  was  become  a 
vengeance  now  indeed  —  Lady  Burdon  twenty  years 
secured  in  her  comfortable  possessions ;  her  husband  by 
fate  removed,  and  the  blow  to  be  struck  through  her 
cherished  son ;  a  friendship  by  fate  designed  suddenly 
to  turn  against  her  and  drive  her  forth  as  she  had  driven 
Audrey.  Fate  in  it  all,  in  each  moment  and  each  measure 
of  it,  and  Aunt  Maggie  had  the  fear  that  now  to  dismiss 
fate  and  anticipate  the  hour  that  she  and  fate  had  chosen 
would  be  to  risk  by  fate's  aid  being  dismissed. 

Fate  gave  her  hint  of  it  —  gave  her  warning.  She 
was  in  one  moment  being  told  by  Percival  of  Rollo's  in- 
tended departure  and  long  absence ;  and  seeing  herself 
robbed,  her  plan  for  his  twenty-first  birthday  defeated, 
was  urging  herself  with  "Now  —  now.  No  need  to 
wait  longer  —  now;  "  she  was  in  the  next  hearing  Per- 
cival's  desolation  at  the  thought  of  losing  "old  Rollo" 
for  so  long  —  of  their  plans  for  closest  companionship 
during  the  few  weeks  that  remained  to  them;  and 
hearing  it,  was  warned  by  the  same  question  she  once 
before  had  asked  herself  and  dared  not  finish,  much  less 
answer  then,  and  dared  not  finish  now:  "What,  when 
I  tell  him,  if— " 

Fate  in  it.  Fate  warning  her.  Aunt  Maggie  thought. 
Fate  threatening  her.  Fate  had  been  so  real,  so  living  a 
thing  to  her,  its  hand  so  plain  a  hundred  times,  that  she 
had  come  to  envisage  it  as  a  personality,  an  actuality 
—  a  grim  and  stern  and  all-powerful  companion  who 
companioned  her  on  her  way  and  who  now  stooped  to 
her  ear  and  told  her  :  "Go  your  own  way  —  if  you  dare. 


398  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Seek  to  take  your  revenge  now  without  my  aid  and  short 
of  the  time  that  you  and  I  have  planned  —  if  you  dare. 
Abandon  me  and  tell  him  now."  Then  the  threat: 
''What,  when  you  tell  him,  if  — " 

''Strange-like"?  "  Touched-Hke "  ?  Thus,  at  least, 
she  held  her  hand,  paying  tribute  to  fate  ;  thus  when  the 
birthday  came,  and  Rollo  and  Lady  Burdon  across  the 
sea,  and  empty  her  vengeance  made  to  seem  if  she  then 
took  it,  she  turned  to  fate  and  asked  of  fate  "What 
now?" 

"Strange-like"?  "Touched-like"?  Again  to  her  ear 
that  strong  companion  stooped  —  not  threatening  now ; 
encouraging,  supporting.  .  .  . 

"Why,  Aunt  Maggie,"  Percival  cried,  "you  do  look 
well  —  fit,  this  morning.  Fifty  times  as  bright  as  you've 
been  looking  these  past  days.     Younger,  I  swear  !" 

"Well,  it  is  your  birthday,  dearest,"  she  told  him. 

"All  very  well !  But  every  time  we've  mentioned  my 
birthday,  my  twenty-first  —  even  last  night  —  you've 
been  — ■  I've  thought  it  has  made  you  sad,  as  if  you  didn't 
want  me  to  have  it !  —  growing  too  old,  or  something  ! " 

For  answer  she  only  shook  her  head  and  smiled  at  him. 
But  her  reason  for  the  stronger  air  he  noticed  in  her,  for 
her  rescue  from  her  depression  of  the  days  that  led  to 
his  birthday,  was  that  to  her  question  of  "What  now?" 
she  was  somehow  assured  that  she  had  but  to  wait,  but 
to  have  a  little  more  patience,  and  her  opportunity  would 
come.  Fate  was  shaping  it  for  her;  fate  in  due  time 
would  present  it.  .  .  . 

II 

Percival  for  his  own  part  was  also  in  some  dealing 
with  fate  in  these  days.  As  one  that  is  forever  feasting 
his  eyes  on  a  prized  and  newly  won  possession,  the  more 


ONE   COMES   OVER  THE  RIDGE         390 

fully  to  realise  it  and  enjoy  it,  so  frequently  in  these  days 
he  was  telling  himself  "I'm  the  happiest  and  luckiest 
beggar  in  the  world  !"  and  was  marvelling  at  the  train  of 
tricks  and  chances  by  which  fate  —  luck  as  he  called  it 

—  had  brought  him  to  this  happy,  lucky  period. 
Every   human   life   falls   into   periods   reckoned   and 

divided  not  by  years  but  by  events.  Sometimes  these 
events  are  recognised  as  milestones  immediately  they 
fall ;  a  death,  a  birth,  a  marriage,  a  new  employment,  a 
journey,  a  sickness  —  we  know  at  once  that  a  new  phase 
is  begun,  we  take  a  new  lease  of  interest  in  life ;  not 
necessarily  a  better  or  a  brighter  lease,  a  worse,  maybe — ■ 
but  new  and  recognised  as  different.  More  frequently 
the  milestone  is  not  perceived  as  such  until  we  look  back 
along  the  road,  see  the  event  clearly  upstanding  and 
realise  that  we  were  one  man  as  we  approached  it  and 
have  become  another  since  we  left  it  behind ;  again  not 
necessarily  a  better  or  a  happier  man  —  a  worse,  maybe ; 
and  maybe  one  that  often  cries  with  outstretched  arms 
to  resume  again  that  former  figure.  It  cannot  be.  Life 
goes  forward,  and  we,  once  started,  like  draughtsmen  on  a 
board,  may  not  move  back.  Beside  each  event  that 
marks  a  milestone  we  leave  a  self  as  the  serpent  sheds  a 
skin  —  all  dead ;  some  better  dead  ;  some  we  would 
give  all,  all  to  bring  again  to  life.     It  may  not  be. 

Percival  in  these  happy,  happy  months  as  right-hand 
man  to  the  Rough  'Uns  on  the  famously  prospering 
little  horse  farm  often  told  himself  that  his  Kfe  had  been 

—  as  he  expressed  it  —  in  three  absolutely  different 
periods.  He  found  a  wonderful  pleasure  in  di\iding  them 
off  and  reviewing  them.  Daily,  and  often  more  than 
once  in  a  day,  when  he  had  a  pony  out  at  exercise,  he 
would  pull  up  on  the  summit  of  rising  ground  and  release 
his  thoughts  to  wander  over  those  periods  as  his  eyes 


400  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

reviewed  from  point  to  point  the  landscape  stretched 
beneath  him ;  his  mind  aglow  with  what  it  tasted  just  as 
his  body  glowed  from  his  exercise  of  schooling  the  pony 
in  the  saddle.  Three  periods,  as  he  would  tell  himself. 
The  first  had  ended  with  that  night  when  he  came  to 
Dora  in  the  drive.  Everything  was  different  after 
that.  Then  all  his  Hfe  with  Japhra  and  with  Ima  in 
the  van  —  the  tough,  hard,  good  Hfe  that  ended  with 
the  fight.  The  third  —  he  now  was  in  the  third ! 
Two  had  been  lived  and  left,  and  in  review  had  for  their 
chief  burthen  the  picture  of  how,  as  he  had  said  during 
his  convalescence,  every  one  had  been  so  jolly,  jolly  good 
to  him.  Two  had  been  lived  and  had  shaped  him  —  "a 
sort  of  thing  for  other  people's  plans";  and  what  kind 
plans  !  and  what  dear  planners  !  and  he,  of  their  fond- 
ness, how  happy  a  thing  !  —  to  this  third  period  that 
sung  to  him  in  every  hour  and  that  went  mistily  into 
the  future  whose  mists  were  rosy,  rosy,  rose-red  and 
snow-white,  Snow-White-and-Rose-Red.  .  .  . 

Ill 

In  the  first  few  months,  before  Rollo  and  Lady  Burdon 
took  their  departure  for  the  two  years'  travel,  he  was 
daily,  in  the  intervals  from  his  work,  with  "old  Rollo" ; 
Dora  often  with  them.  Nothing  would  satisfy  Rollo 
for  the  few  weeks  that  lay  between  Percival's  beginning 
of  his  duties  with  the  Hannafords  and  his  own  start  for 
the  foreign  tour  but  that  they  must  be  spent  at  Burdon 
Old  Manor,  nothing  would  please  him  to  fill  in  those  days 
but  to  pass  them  in  Percival's  company.  He  made  no 
concealment  of  his  affection  for  his  friend.  Men  not 
commonly  declare  to  one  another  the  liking  or  the  deeper 
feeling  they  may  mutually  entertain.     The  habit  belongs 


ONE   COMES  OVER  THE   RIDGE         401 

to  women,  and  that  it  was  indulged  by  Rollo  was  mark 
in  him  of  the  woman  element  that  is  to  be  observed  in 
some  men.  It  is  altogether  a  different  quality  from 
effeminacy,  this  woman  element.  Sex  is  a  chemical 
compound,  as  one  might  say,  and  often  are  to  be  met 
men  on  the  one  hand  and  women  on  the  other  in  whom 
one  might  believe  the  male  or  female  form  that  has 
precipitated  came  very  nearly  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
division  —  women  who  are  attracted  by  women  and 
to  whom  women  are  attracted ;  and  men,  manly  enough 
but  curiously  unmannish,  who  are  noticeably  sensible 
to  strongly  male  qualities  and  who  arouse  something  of  a 
brotherly  affection  in  men  in  whom  the  male  attributes 
ring  sharp  and  clear  as  a  touch  on  true  bell. 

There  were  thrown  together  in  Rollo  and  Percival 
very  notable  examples  of  these  hazards  in  nature's 
crucibles.  The  complete  and  most  successful  male  was 
precipitated  in  him  of  whom  Japhra  had  said  long  days 
before :  "I  know  the  fighting  type.  Mark  me  when  the 
years  come.  A  fighter  thou."  Qualities  of  woman  were 
alloyed  in  him  who  once  had  cried:  "Men  don't  talk 
about  these  things,  Percival,  so  I've  never  told  you  all 
you  are  to  me  —  but  it's  a  fact  that  I'm  never  really 
happy  except  when  I'm  with  you."  Strongly  their 
natures  therefore  cleaved,  devotedly  and  with  a  clinging 
fondness  on  the  weaker  part ;  on  the  bolder,  protectively 
and  with  the  tenderness  that  comes  responsive  from 
knowledge  of  the  other's  dependence. 

"Men  don't  talk  about  these  things  —  but  I'm  never 
really  happy  except  when  I'm  with  you."  That  diffi- 
dence at  sentiment  and  that  self-exposure  despite  it, 
made  when  Percival,  off  to  join  Japhra,  seemed  to  be 
passing  out  of  his  life,  were  repeated  fondly  and  many 
times  by  Rollo  now  that  Percival  looked  to  be  back  in  his 


402  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

life  again.  "Hearing  me  talk  like  this,"  he  told  Percival, 
"it  makes  you  rather  squirm,  I  expect  —  the  sort  ol 
chap  you  are.  But  I  can't  help  it  and  I  don't  care,"  and 
he  laughed  —  "the  sort  of  chap  I  am.  You  don't  know 
—  you  can't  come  near  guessing,  old  man,  what  it  means 
to  me  to  think  you've  chucked  all  that  mad  gipsy  life  ot 
yours  that  might  have  ended  in  anything,  the  rummy 
thing  it  was,  and  that  kept  you  utterly  away  from  me ; 
to  think  you've  chucked  all  that  and  are  settled  down 
in  a  business  that  really  is  a  good  thing,  every  one  says  it 
is,  and  any  one  can  see  it.  It  means  to  me  —  well,  I 
can't  tell  you  what,  you'd  only  laugh.  But  I  can  tell 
you  this  much,  that  I  do  nothing  but  think,  and  all  the 
time  I'm  away  shall  be  thinking,  of  how  we'll  both  be 
down  here  always  now  when  I  get  back,  and  of  all  the 
things  we'll  do  together." 

They  were  riding  as  he  spoke,  their  horses  at  a  walk 
up  the  steady  climb  of  the  down  to  Plowman's  Ridge 
from  Market  Roding.  His  voice  on  his  last  sentence 
had  taken  an  eager,  impulsive  note,  and  as  though  he 
had  a  sudden  suspicion  that  it  was  betraying  an  undue 
degree  of  sentiment  he  stopped  abruptly,  his  face  a 
trifle  red.  It  was  his  confusion,  not  any  excess  of  senti- 
ment, that  Percival  —  quick  as  of  old  in  sympathy  with 
another's  feelings  —  noticed.  He  edged  his  horse  nearer 
Rollo's  and  touched  Rollo  with  his  whip.  "Yes,  we're 
going  to  have  a  great,  great  time,  aren't  we?"  he  said. 
"I'm  only  just  beginning  to  reaUse  it  —  great,  Rollo  !" 

The  affectionate  touch  and  the  responsive  words 
caused  Rollo  to  turn  to  him  as  abruptly  as  he  had  broken 
off.  "I've  planned  it,"  Rollo  said.  "  I'm  forever  planning 
it.  When  I  get  back  —  fit  —  I'm  going  to  settle  down 
here  for  good.  I  loathe  all  that,  you  know."  and  he 
jerked  his  head  vaguely  to  where  "all  that"  might  lie, 


ONE   COMES   OVER  THE   RIDGE         403 

and  said,  "London  and  that  kind  of  thing.  I'm  going  to 
take  up  things  here.  I've  never  had  any  interests  so 
far.  My  rotten  health,  partly,  and  partly  not  getting 
on  with  people,  and  I've  let  everything  drift  along  and 
let  mother  make  all  the  programmes.  That's  how  it's 
been  ever  since  you  went  off.  Now  you're  back  again 
and  I'm  keen  as  anything.  I'm  going  to  work  up  all 
this  property,  going  to  get  to  know  all  the  people  inti- 
mately and  help  them  with  all  sorts  of  schemes.  Going  to 
run  my  own  show  —  you  know  what  I  mean,  no  agent 
or  any  one  between  me  and  the  tenants  and  the  land. 
And  you're  going  to  help  me  — ■  that's  the  germ  of  it  and 
the  secret  of  it  and  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  it." 

Percival  laughed  and  said:  ''Help  you!  You  won't 
want  any  help  from  me.  I  can  see  myself  touching-my- 
hat-to-the-squire  sort  of  thing  as  you  go  hustling  about 
the  country-side." 

But  Roho  was  too  serious  for  banter.  "You  know 
what  I  mean,"  he  said.  "  And  you  —  you're  going  to  be 
a  big  man  in  these  parts,  as  they  say,  the  way  you're 
going,  before  very  long." 

They  had  gained  the  Ridge  and  by  common  consent 
of  their  horses  were  halted  on  the  summit.  Rollo  turned 
in  his  saddle  and  pointed  below  them.  "Percival, 
that's  what  I  mean,"  he  said,  and  carried  his  whip  from 
end  to  end  along  the  Burdon  hamlets.  "That's  what  I 
think  of.  Look  how  peaceful  and  remote  it  all  looks,  shut 
away  from  everything  by  the  Ridge.  We  two  together 
down  there,  planning  and  doing  and  living  — " 

Percival's  gaze  had  travelled  on  from  Burdon  Old 
Manor  where  the  whip  had  taken  it  and  over  the  Ridge 
into  the  eastward  vale.  He  turned  again  to  Rollo, 
recalled  by  the  stopping  of  his  voice ;  and  Rollo  saw  his 
strong  face  bright  and  said  :  "You'll  think  me  a  frightful 


404  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

ass,  you'll  think  me  a  girl,  but  you  know  I  get  quite 
'tingly'  when  I  anticipate  it  all.  And  not  want  your 
help!  —  Why,  only  look  at  that  for  instance,"  and  he 
laughed  and  put  his  hand  against  Percival's  where  it  lay 
before  his  saddle.  The  delicate  white,  the  veins  showing, 
against  the  strong  brown  fist  was  illustration  enough  of 
his  meaning.  ''And  you're  not  long  out  of  an  illness  that 
would  have  outed  me  in  two  days,"  he  said. 

He  saw  the  bright  look  he  had  observed  shade,  as  it 
were,  to  one  very  earnest.  The  symbol  of  their  two 
hands  so  strongly  different  quickened  in  Percival  the 
appeal  that  he  always  felt  in  Rollo's  company,  that  went 
back  to  the  early  years  of  their  play  together,  that  was 
vital  part  of  this  happy,  lucky  period,  and  that  was 
warmed  again  in  the  thoughts  that  came  to  him  as  he  had 
looked  over  the  eastward  valley.  "Why,  Rollo,"  he  said 
earnestly,  "it  is  good  to  think  of.  It  is  going  to  be 
good.  We  two  down  there.  It's  wonderful  to  me  how 
it's  all  come  out.  It  makes  me  '  tingly,'  too,  when  I  think 
of  it  —  and  of  what  it's  going  to  be.  Help  you  —  why, 
we  two  — "  He  pressed  the  brown  fist  about  the  delicate 
hand.  "There!  —  just  like  tliis  good  old  Plowman's 
Ridge  that  shuts  us  off  from  everybody !  Nothing 
comes  past  that  to  interfere  with  us," 

They  were  a  moment  silent,  each  in  his  different  way 
occupied  by  this  close  exchange  of  their  friendship ;  and 
Rollo's  way  made  him  almost  at  once  put  his  horse 
about,  concerned  lest  his  face  should  betray  his  feelings, 
and  made  him  say  with  an  attempt  at  lightness:  "No, 
nothing,  with  the  good  old  Ridge  to  shut  us  off,"  and 
then,  "Is  that  some  one  riding  up  from  Upabbot?" 

The  direction  was  that  where  Percival's  gaze  had  been. 
"Yes,  it  is,"  Percival  said.  "I  thought  so.  She's 
coming  up.     ^t's  Dora," 


CHAPTER  X 

TWO  RIDE   TOGETHER 


Often  in  these  weeks  the  three  rode  together ;  seldom 
Percival  and  Dora  met  out  of  Rollo's  company.  Brief 
moments  while  they  waited  him,  brief  moments  when 
he  rode  ahead  of  them,  these  were  the  most  frequent 
of  their  intimacies ;  more  rarely  came  chance  half-hours, 
and  most  rare  of  all  half-hours  planned  when  she  admitted 
they  could  be  contrived.  He  suffered  nothing  that 
their  meetings  should  be  thus  fugitive  and  at  caprice,  in 
main,  of  Rollo's  moods  and  movements.  That  none  as 
yet  should  know  their  secret  ministered  to  rather  than 
chafed  his  ardour;  that,  when  their  eyes  met,  their  eyes 
spoke  what  in  all  the  world  only  they  two  knew,  was  of 
itself  as  darling  a  thing  as  when  to  all  the  world  she 
should  be  known  for  his  alone.  Then  she  would  be  his 
own,  but  their  secret  the  price  of  it ;  now  he  might  not 
claim  her,  but  ah,  their  secret,  theirs  ! 

So  secret  it  was,  and  she  so  much  her  rare  and  chaste 
and  frozen  self,  that  even  between  them  it  was  hardly 
spoken.  He  never  had  lost  his  first  awe  and  wonder  at 
her  beauty;  and  it  filmed  all  his  intercourse  with  her 
and  all  his  thoughts  of  her  as  with  a  gossamer  veil  that, 
forbidding  rough  movements,  forbade  him  touch  her 
with  the  close  words  of  his  passion  that  might  bruise 
her  or  give  her  alarm.     More  by  signs  than  ever  by 

405 


4o6  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

words  they  spoke  their  secret.  Words  carried  them  over 
the  passing  subjects  that  any  might  discuss;  signs  re- 
vealed the  secret  that  was  theirs  alone.  When  they 
met  the  faintest  deepening  of  her  colour  shades  would 
show  it,  when  they  parted  came  a  last  glance  and  again 
those  shades  would  glow;  when  he  sometimes  touched 
her  hand,  her  hand  would  stay  and  speak  it;  when  he 
sometimes  held  her  eyes,  ah,  then  their  secret  stirred  ! 
In  those  few  half-hours  when  alone  they  came  together, 
meeting  near  the  Abbey,  riding  through  the  lanes,  then 
with  none  to  see  them  he  would  hold  her  hand  and  feel 
it  tell  him  of  their  secret  while  their  lips  told  empty 
words. 

It  was  in  these  weeks,  indeed,  that  he  came  to  know  he 
found  it  a  little  hard  to  make  conversation  with  her. 
That  something  of  her  character  was  manifested  in 
this  difficulty  he  had  no  suspicion,  nor  that  in  his 
solution  of  it  her  disposition  was  clearer  yet  revealed. 
He  found  she  was  not  greatly  interested  to  hear  of  him- 
self ;  then  found  her  most  alert,  and  oftenest  brought 
the  little  laugh  he  loved  to  hear,  the  deepening  he 
loved  to  see  of  those  strange  shades  of  colour  on  her 
cheeks,  by  speaking  to  her  of  herself,  or  listening  while 
of  herself  she  told  him.  At  first  he  gave  her  gHmpses  of 
the  van  life  with  Japhra  on  the  road ;  her  curiosity  was 
not  aroused.  Something  of  the  famous  fight  he  told 
her,  and  in  \'igorous  passages  of  when  the  sticks  came  out, 
and  of  the  wild  scenes  that  followed  the  crime  of  poor 
old  Hunt,  whom  she  had  known :  he  saw  she  was  not 
greatly  entertained.  Later,  as  events  ran  along,  he 
gave  them  to  her  —  told  her  of  the  day  when  it  was  found 
that  his  increasing  activities  with  the  dear  old  Rough 
'Uns  made  it  necessary  he  should  live  over  there,  no 
longer  ride  daily  to  and  fro  from  "Post  Offic,"  and  of 


TWO   RIDE   TOGETHER  407 

how  jolly,  jolly  good  they  were  to  him  and  of  the  funny 
evenings  in  their  company ;  told  her  of  the  day  when  the 
Rough  'Uns  had  announced  they  thought  it  proper  to 
advancement  of  their  business  that  a  couple  of  hunters 
should  be  bought  for  him  so  that  he  might  ride  to  hounds 
and  keep  among  the  horsey  folk  when  the  hunting 
season  opened;  told  her  of  the  day  when  he  had  from 
Aunt  Maggie  the  news  that  the  affection  between  herself 
and  Ima  had  arranged  that  Ima  was  coming  to  spend 
the  approaching  winter  —  and  likely  every  winter  — 
with  her ;  all  these  he  brought  to  Dora,  but  slowly  came 
to  see  they  but  Httle  took  her  interest. 

The  discovery  no  more  gave  him  suspicion  that  she 
was  at  fault  in  sympathy  than  of  itself  it  vexed  him,  as 
one  commonly  might  be  vexed  in  such  a  case.  It  was 
himself  he  blamed  when,  recalling  how  he  had  talked 
and  how  little  had  been  her  response,  he  feared  that  he 
had  tired  her  by  his  enthusiasms  or,  as  reproaching  him- 
self he  termed  them,  his  meanderings.  Clumsy  he  called 
himself,  inept,  dull-witted ;  and  pictured  her,  his  darhng 
and  his  goddess,  his  frozen,  rarest,  perfect  Snow-White- 
and-Rose-Red,  and  hated  to  have  blundered  all  his 
dulness  on  so  rare  and  exquisite  a  thing.  Glad,  then, 
the  finding  that  he  could  entertain  her  by  exercise  of 
what  a  thousand-fold  entranced  himself  —  by  en- 
couraging her  to  speak  of  herself,  her  doings,  her  reflec- 
tions, just  as  in  the  drive  in  that  hour  when  first  he  knew 
he  loved  her  she  had  spoken  of  her  school.  Lightest 
and  most  prattling  what  she  told,  and  light  and  very 
passing  what  she  thought ;  but  spoken  in  her  quaintly 
precise  mode  of  speech  and  in  her  cold,  high  tone,  and 
bringing  from  her  her  cold  Httle  laugh,  and  on  her  cold 
white  cheek  lighting  those  flames  of  colour.  When  he 
watched  her  with  others  he  saw  her  perfect  face  set  in  its 


4o8  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

strangely  still,  aloof  expression;  when  she  spoke  with 
him,  and  spoke  of  herself,  he  was  content  only  to  listen 
so  he  might  see  it  light  and  sometimes  see  their  secret 
make  it  flame. 

More  than  once  while  she  so  spoke  and  he  so  listened, 
"But  I  told  you  that,"  she  would  say;  ''I  perfectly 
recollect  telling  you," 

And  he:  "Well,  tell  me  again;"  and  at  the  note  of 
his  voice  she  would  seem  to  catch  her  breath  as  though 
some  sharpness  checked  her  breathing,  and  he  would 
see  their  secret  flutter  in  her  eyes  and  see  it  stain  its 
signal  like  a  red  rose  on  her  cheeks. 

II 

It  was  by  one  definite  step  —  not  observed  as  such  by 
him  at  the  time  nor  any  significance  in  it  apprehended  — 
that  they  passed  from  this  stage  of  reserve  on  the  matter 
between  them  and  came  towards  its  open  entertainment. 
The  afternoon  following  Rollo's  departure  with  Lady 
Burdon  on  the  long  foreign  tour  marked  the  event,  and 
Percival,  meeting  Dora  by  chance,  was  in  some  loss  of 
spirits  at  the  fact.  He  found  her  in  very  different  case. 
Her  mood  was  high.  She  had  the  air  of  one  who  has 
made  a  success  or  who  has  escaped  some  shadowing 
mischief.  He  could  suppose  no  cause  for  such  a  thing  or 
he  would  have  said  her  bearing  signified  relief,  removal 
of  some  oppression,  freedom  from  some  weight  that  had 
burdened  her  mind  and  that  now,  displaced,  suffered 
her  mind  to  run  up,  made  her  tread  fighter. 

"There's  something  different  about  you  to-day,"  he 
told  her ;  then,  while  she  laughed,  and  while  he  caught 
more  glee  than  commonly  he  knew  in  the  little  sound 
he  loved  to  hear,  found  the  exact  expression  for  the  change 


TWO   RIDE   TOGETHER  409 

he  saw,  and  named  the  new  step  in  their  relations  — • 
"You  are  as  if  you'd  suddenly  got  a  holiday." 

"Well,  it  is  true  that  I  somehow  feel  like  that,"  she 
declared,  "though  why  I  should,  I  am  sure  I  cannot 
imagine." 

Yet  dimly  she  knew,  dimly  in  these  later  days  had  felt 
closing  about  her  the  purpose  of  her  training,  and  when 
Percival  spoke  of  the  two  years  —  the  "frightfully  long 
time"  —  for  which  old  Rollo  was  gone,  knew  it  half 
unknowingly  for  the  period  of  her  hohday.  Another, 
more  freely  schooled  than  she,  had  known  it  clearly, 
had  questioned,  revolved,  examined  the  sudden  lightness 
that  was  hers,  had  realised  it  came  of  freedom  from 
constant  reminder  of  an  end  that  seemed  to  wait  her, 
and  had  inquired  of  herself,  Why  then  glad  ?  —  Is  that 
end  unwelcome  ? 

It  was  not  hers  so  to  examine;  or  examining,  so  to 
reahse;  or  reahsing,  so  to  ask;  nor  asking,  and  being 
answered  "Yes,  unwelcome,"  to  think  to  make  resistance 
and  crush  the  end  before  it  came.  Not  hers  whose 
schooling  in  her  mother's  hands  had  made  for  and  had 
won  the  stifling  of  such  processes  of  thought;  not  hers 
who  was  caparisoned  and  trained  for  certain  purpose; 
not  hers  who  had  responded  in  faultless  beauty  and  in 
cloistered  mind.  Hers,  if  she  stretched  her  hands  and 
on  a  sudden  found  that  purpose  walled  about  her,  only 
to  follow  on  between  the  walls,  not  to  break  through 
them;  to  glance  at  them  or  run  them  with  her  fingers 
and  see  them  silk  and  proper  to  her  life,  not  beat  against 
them,  find  them  steel  behind  the  silk,  cry  "Trapped! 
Trapped!"  and  wildly  beat  for  outlet.  Hers,  if  she 
raised  her  eyes  and  saw  her  purposed  end  far  down  the 
narrow  way,  only  to  accept  and  move  towards  it,  not  to 
halt,  doubt,  fear ;  hers  to  glance,  and  know,  and  think  it 


4IO  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

meet  and  proper  to  her  life,  not  start  and  shrink,  cry 
"No!  No!  No!"  and  seek  escape  while  yet  escape 
might  be. 

So  she  was  circumstanced ;  yet  there  remains,  be 
restraint  never  so  firmly  chilled  into  the  bones,  the  purely 
primeval  instinct  of  delight  in  freedom;  so  she  was 
trained,  but  scarcely  yet  had  recognised  purpose,  walls,  or 
end.  She  only,  as  she  told  Percival,  "  somehow  f elt "  that 
she  had  holiday,  and  holiday  her  mood  in  the  months 
that  went.  Why  she  felt  so,  she  was  sure,  as  she  said, 
she  could  not  imagine;  but  as  the  butterfly,  content 
to  live  among  the  flowers  of  a  hothouse  and  never  know 
itself  prisoner,  will  airily  toss  aloft  through  the  open 
door  yet  scarcely  think  itself  escaped,  so,  content  to  have 
remained,  but  gaily  floating  free,  blithe  and  new  her 
mood  when  now  they  met.  Less  frequent  their  meetings, 
the  common  excuse  of  Rollo  being  denied,  but  ah,  more 
fond  !  Fewer  their  secret  exchanges,  but  ah,  more  dear  ! 
Holiday  her  mood,  and  fluttering  she  came  to  him,  and 
was  swinging  in  his  ardour  from  her  prison  to  liis  heart ; 
from  his  heart  to  her  prison,  swinging  in  his  ardour,  and 
had  no  more  than  glimpses  —  transient  tremors  —  of 
her  prison's  walls, 

m 

He  had  her  engaged  in  such  a  glimpse  —  a  little  fear- 
fully suspicious  that  there  were  walls  about  her  —  on  a 
day  when  they  were  hunting  together.  Mrs.  Espart 
changed  her  earlier  intention  of  returning  to  town  in 
the  Autumn  after  Rollo  and  his  mother  had  left.  To 
encourage  her  position  in  the  country-side  formed  part  of 
her  own  share  of  the  plans  for  the  young  people  that  were 
to  crystallise  when  the  return  was  made  to  Burdon  Old 
Manor,  and  she  began  to  centre  Abbey  Royal  in  the  social 


TWO  RIDE  TOGETHER  411 

round  of  the  neighbourhood.  Her  daughter's  betrothal 
to  Lord  Burdon,  when  it  was  done  and  announced,  should 
thus,  as  she  schemed,  lose  nothing  that  was  possible 
to  the  stir  it  would  make.  She  was  able  to  use  the  local 
Hunt  as  a  prominent  part  of  these  intentions,  did  not 
ride  herself,  but  horsed  Dora  well,  subscribed  handsomely 
and  was  gladly  taken  up  by  the  Master  in  her  suggestion 
of  a  bi-monthly  meet  at  the  Abbey. 

Thus  it  was  after  hounds  that  Percival  and  Dora  were 
given  best  chance  to  meet.  The  Rough  'Uns'  idea  of 
mounting  Percival  for  the  field  proved  successful  to 
them  as  happy  to  him ;  Dora,  in  pursuance  of  her 
mother's  plans,  had  encouragement  —  and  wanted  none 
—  rarely  to  miss  a  meet.  Hounds  had  run  far  on  that 
day  when  she  was  caught  by  Percival  engaged  in  one  of 
those  transient  glimpses  of  her  state  that  sometimes  in 
these  days  came  to  puzzle  her.  He  threw  her  into  it, 
and  that  at  a  moment  most  unlikely,  for  circumstances 
had  it  that  she  was  uncomfortable  and  out  of  temper. 
A  bold  fox  carried  the  few  who  could  follow  him  — 
they  two  among  them  —  to  a  point  fifteen  miles  from 
the  Abbey  before  hounds  ran  into  him.  It  was  late 
afternoon,  rain  falling,  when  Percival  and  Dora  started 
to  hack  the  long  stretch  home,  and  they  were  little  ad- 
vanced on  the  road,  and  she  feeling  the  wet,  when  she 
pronounced  her  feehngs  by  telHng  him  petulantly  :  ''You 
should  not  have  made  me  come  on.  I  would  have 
turned  back  long  ago." 

But  it  had  been  a  rare  run,  and  he  was  beneath  the 
vigour  of  it.  " Come,  it  was  a  great  run,"  he  said.  "It 
was  worth  it,  Dora." 

"Nothing  is  worth  getting  wet  like  this.  You  know 
how  I  hate  getting  wet." 

She  was  much  wetter,  and  would  give  him  no  words, 


412  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

before  a  new  trial  necessitated  that  she  should  speak 
again.  Her  saddle  was  sKpping,  she  said,  and  when  he 
ahghted  and  found  the  girths  had  loosened  and  then 
that  she  must  get  down :  "No,  I'll  try  it  a  Httle  farther," 
she  told  him  very  vexedly.  "We're  nearly  there  now.  To 
move  is  hateful.     The  wet  is  touching  me  right  through." 

She  gave  him  no  answer  to  his  "I'm  awfully  sorry, 
Dora;"  but  presently  said:  "It's  no  good,  I  must  get 
down,  I  suppose." 

He  looked  up  at  her  as  he  stood  to  help  her  from  the 
saddle. 

"You're  angry,  Dora?" 

"Well,  of  course  I  am  angry." 

He  acted  upon  an  impulse  that  swept  out  her  temper 
and  put  her  to  that  transient  glimpse  that  vaguely 
showed  her  vague  misgi\-ings.  He  had  watched  her  as 
they  rode  in  silence,  watched  the  rain  that  swept  against 
her  face  run  down  her  face  that  was  Uke  marble  in  her 
chill  and  in  her  loss  of  temper.  Cold  as  it  her  eyes  that 
met  his  now,  and  he  had  a  sudden  impression  of  her  — 
all  marble,  all  frozen  snow,  his  darling  !  —  that  seemed 
to  embody  all  his  every  thought  of  her  frozen  beauty  and 
frozen  quality  since  first  he  knew  her,  and  that  taxed 
beyond  his  power  the  restraint  that  frozen  quahty  ever 
had  set  upon  him.  Beyond  his  power  !  —  and  as  he 
brought  her  down  he  not  released  her,  almost  roughly 
turned  her  to  him;  and  with  no  word  almost  roughly 
clasped  her  to  him;  and  with  "Dora  !"  kissed  her  wet 
face  and  held  her  while  startled  she  protested ;  and  kissed 
again,  again,  again,  again. 

"No,  I  will  not  let  you  go  !  No,  you  have  been  cold  to 
me  !  No,  you  shall  not  go  !  I  have  never  kissed  you 
since  that  once  I  kissed  you.  I  will  kiss  you  now.  No, 
I  will  not  let  you  go.     I  love  you,  love  you,  love  you  ! " 


TWO   RIDE   TOGETHER  413 

She  bent  her  face  away.  He  felt  her  panting  in  his 
arms  and  pressed  her  to  him ;  and  with  his  hands  could 
feel  how  wet  she  was,  and  with  his  body  felt  her  warm 
against  him  through  her  soaking  clothes ;  and  passion 
of  love  broke  from  him  in  words,  as  passion  of  love  he 
pressed  upon  her  face. 

"Turn  your  face  to  me,  Dora.  You  shall.  I  have 
endured  enough.  Turn  your  face  to  me  —  your  wet, 
cold,  sweet  face  that  I  love.  Give  me  your  Hps.  Give 
me  your  lips.  I  will  kiss  your  lips  and  you  shall  kiss  me. 
Put  your  arms  round  me.  Dora,  put  your  arms  round 
me.  Now  kiss  me,  kiss  me  —  Ah  !  I  love  you,  I  love 
you  —  my  darling,  my  beautiful,  my  Snow-White-and- 
Rose-Red.  Keep  your  arms  there,  Dora,  Dora,  my 
Dora!" 

His  voice  had  run  hoarse  and  broken  in  his  passion ; 
now,  when  obedient  she  gave  him  her  lips,  obedient 
clung  to  him  —  her  will,  her  physical  discomfort  and 
her  natural  impassivity  burnt  up  as  in  a  flame  by  this 
sudden  assault  —  deep  his  voice  went  and  strong  :  — 

"That  is  all  done  now  —  all  those  days  when  I  have 
been  afraid  to  touch  my  darling,  afraid  to  tell  her  every 
hour,  every  moment,  how  I  love  her  for  fear  of  frightening 
her.  You  are  in  my  arms,  my  darling,  and  I  can  feel 
my  darling's  heart,  and  those  days  can  never  come  again. 
You  shall  remember  when  you  see  me  how  I  have  held 
you  here.  You  shall  remember  how  you  lie  in  my  arms 
and  that  they  hold  you  strongly,  strongly,  and  that  it  is 
your  safe,  safe  place.  Look  up  at  me  !  Ah,  ah,  how 
beautiful  you  are  —  your  eyes,  your  lips,  your  cold, 
sweet  face  with  the  rain  all  wet  on  it.  Kiss  me  !  Ah, 
Dora  —  we  were  meant  to  meet,  meant  to  love." 

She  answered  him  more  by  the  abandonment  with 
which  she  lay  in  his  arms  than  by  the  faltering  sentences 


414  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

in  which  she  sometimes  whispered  while  they  stood  there. 
She  was  whispering,  "I  never  meant  you  should  think  I 
was  afraid.  Percival,  I  never  meant  you  should  think 
I  did  not  want  to  speak  about  our  love.  Only  — "  when 
she  shivered  violently,  and  he  chid  himself  for  keeping  her 
there,  and  for  warmth's  sake,  he  leading  the  horses,  they 
walked  the  last  mile  to  the  Abbey.  Ardently  then  he 
talked  to  her  of  future  plans.  He  told  her  that  late  in 
the  next  year  it  was  arranged  he  was  to  go  out  to  the 
Argentine  with  some  ponies.  A  big  business  was  like 
to  be  established  there,  arising  out  of  a  sale  to  a  South 
American  syndicate,  and  he  was  to  arrange  it  and  to 
select  and  bring  back  ponies  of  a  native  strain  for  the 
development  of  a  Ukely  type.  When  he  returned  — 
"This  is  why  I  am  telling  you,  darling,"  —  the  good  old 
Rough  'Uns  had  declared  he  should  formally  be  made 
partner  in  what  had  now  become  a  great  enterprise. 
"I  shall  claim  you  then,  my  darling.  I  shall  be  able  to 
claim  you  then." 

She  surprised  him  —  and,  not  aware  of  her  reason, 
thrilled  him  —  by  halting  suddenly  and  clasping  his 
hands  that  had  been  holding  hers.  "Oh,  don't  leave 
me,  Percival !     Percival,  don't  go  away  !" 

He  kissed  her  adoringly.     "Do  you  love  me  so ?" 

She  clung  to  him  and  only  said:  "Don't  leave  me, 
Percival.  Percival,  you  must  not,"  and  while  he  sought 
to  soothe  her  plea  —  and  still  was  thrilled  to  hear  it  — 
suddenly  went  into  a  tempest  of  weeping,  changing  his 
tender  happiness  to  tenderest  concern. 

"Dora  !  Why,  what  is  it?  What  is  it,  my  darhng? 
Tell  me,  tell  me  —  ah,  don't,  don't  cry,  don't  tremble 
Hke  that." 

She  had  not  controlled  herself  to  answer  him  when 
sound  of  wheels  came  down  the  road,  lamps  through  the 


I 


TWO   RIDE  TOGETHER  415 

gloom.  She  checked  herself,  and  was  at  her  horse's  head 
when  there  drew  up  a  carriage  sent  from  the  Abbey  to 
meet  her  and  bring  her  back  in  shelter  from  the  rain.  A 
groom  took  her  horse  and,  standing  by  the  door  as  she 
entered,  prevented  explanation  she  might  have  made  — 
had  she  been  able  to  explain. 


IV 

Had  she  been  able  —  for  the  thing  that  caused  her 
sudden  tears  and  sudden  plea  was  no  more  than  a  glimpse, 
one  of  those  transient  ghmpses  of  the  walls,  of  the 
purpose,  of  the  end  of  her  training;  differing  from 
other  glimpses  that  sometimes  came  in  that  it  caught 
her  unstrung.  If  it  flickered  again  in  the  weeks  that 
followed,  it  Httle  more  disturbed  her  than  sudden  shadow 
across  the  garden  disturbs  the  butterfly  passing  among 
the  flowers ;  a  flicker  of  misgiving,  a  vague  disturbance  — 
gone.  The  year's  end  took  her  away  with  her  mother  to 
town.  Succeeding  Autumn  that  brought  them  back 
started  Percival  to  the  Argentine. 

"I  just  miss  everybody  by  going  by  this  boat,"  he 
told  Aunt  Maggie,  sitting  with  her  far  into  the  night 
before  his  departure.  "There's  Ima  coming  to  you  to 
look  after  you  till  I  get  back  and  not  coming  till  next 
week,  so  I  just  miss  her ;  and  old  Japhra  bringing  her,  so 
I  miss  seeing  him  too;  and  then"  —  he  paused  for  the 
briefest  moment  —  "there's  Dora  and  her  mother 
staying  another  fortnight  abroad  so  I  miss  them ;  and 
old  Rollo  and  Lady  Burdon  due  next  month  —  I  miss 
them  all.     It's  the  rottenest  luck." 

"They'll  all  be  here  for  you  when  you  get  back," 
Aunt  Maggie  said. 

He    paused    again  before  he   spoke.     "Yes.     That's 


4i6 


THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 


where  my  luck's  going  to  be  dead  in.  I  could  tell  you 
something,  Aunt  Maggie,"  and  he  laughed.  "But  I 
won't  —  yet.  My  luck  —  look  here,  tell  old  Japhra 
this  from  me ;  tell  him  I'm  coming  back  for  —  he'll 
understand  —  the  Big  Fight,  and  going  to  win  it !" 


CHAPTER  XI 

NEWS    OF   HUNT.     NEWS    OF    ROLLO.      NEWS    OF   DORA 


The  great  Argentine  trip  —  an  affair  of  so  much  con- 
sequence in  its  bearing  on  the  development  of  pony- 
breeding  as  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  "Field"  in  a 
series  of  articles  that  spoke  in  highest  terms  of  "Messrs. 
Hannafords'  well-known  estabhshment "  and  of  "the 
far-reaching  effects  of  their  new  enterprise"  —  occupied 
six  months.  Six  weeks  —  or  days  —  they  seemed  to 
Percival  as  they  fled  on  the  novelty  and  the  busy  interests 
that  attended  him  while  in  South  America.  Six  years 
he  found  them  on  the  long  voyage  home  in  the  steamer 
that  brought  him  and  the  purchases  from  native  stock 
of  whose  blood  "the  far-reaching  effects"  were  to  be 
produced ;  and  twice  and  three  times  six  years  he  de- 
clared to  himself  he  seemed  to  have  been  away  as,  in 
the  closing  hours  of  an  April  afternoon,  the  train  brought 
him  in  sight  —  at  last !  at  last !  —  of  homeland  scenes, 
of  Plowman's  Ridge  along  the  eastward  sky. 

Quite  a  httle  party  was  assembled  on  Great  Letham 
platform  to  greet  him.  The  Rough  'Uns  had  driven 
over  in  two  separate  carts  —  one  that  should  carry 
him  to  Aunt  Maggie  and  the  other  that  should  bear  his 
luggage  —  and  they  were  there,  their  faces  to  be  seen 
afar  like  crimson  lamps  of  their  excitement,  and  Mr. 
Hannaford's  leg-and-cane  cracks  rising  high  above  the 
din  of  escaping  steam  in  which  the  train  dr^w  up,  and 

417 


4i8  THE   IL\PPY   WARRIOR 

Stingo  almost  completely  voiceless  with  huskiness  for 
more  than  an  hour  back.  And  Stingo  had  brought 
Japhra,  arrived  at  the  Uttle  horse  farm  to  take  up  Ima 
after  her  winter  •^'ith  Aunt  Maggie ;  and  Mr.  Hannaford 
had  brought  Ima,  and  they  were  there  —  Japhra  with 
his  tight  mouth  twitching,  and  deep  in  his  puckered 
face  his  bright  little  eyes  gleaming ;  and  Ima,  standing  a 
shade  apart,  a  tinge  of  colour  crept  beneath  her  skin, 
and  on  her  Ups  and  in  her  eyes  her  gentle  smile.  To 
complete  the  greeting  there  came  shriU,  ridiculous 
chuckles  from  a  stout,  soft  gentleman,  and  from  his 
sister  Httle  hops  and  httle  flutters  and  "There  he  is! 
He'll  hit  his  head  leaning  out  like  that !  He's  hro'j,mer 
than  ever  !     Oh,  Percival!" 

And  "Percival !"  from  them  all  in  aU  their  different 
keys,  and  he  among  them  before  the  train  was  stopped, 
and  turning  from  glad  face  to  glad  face,  and  caught 
up  in  the  midst  of  it  with  a  sudden  wave  of  the  old 
thought,  like  a  knock  at  the  heart,  like  a  catch  at  the 
throat  —  "How  jolly,  jolly  good  they  aU  are  to  me  !" 

Like  a  knock  at  the  heart,  like  a  catch  at  the  throat,  it 
took  him,  and  checked  him  a  moment  in  his  responses  to 
the  congratulations  and  was  mirrored  in  the  flicker  that 
went  across  his  face.  His  eyes  caught  Japhra's  and  it 
was  the  look  of  understanding  he  read  there,  he  thought, 
that  brought  Japhra  to  him  for  another  word  before  he 
drove  away.  In  the  station  yard  the  traps  were  waiting. 
"You,  longside  o'  me  —  partner !''  bellowed  Mr.  Hanna- 
ford and  must  shake  Percival's  hand  again  for  the 
meaning  of  that  word.  "Up  behind.  Ima,  my  dear. 
We'll  take  partner  home  while  Stingo  leaves  that  box 
at  the  farm  and  then  comes  on  with  the  rest  of  the 
luggage." 

Plump  Mr.   Purdie  and    birdlike  httle  Miss  Purdie 


NEWS   OF  HUNT,   ROLLO  AND   DORA    419 

had  started  to  walk;  Stingo  was  throating  "Come 
along,  Japhra,  come  along,  Japhra,"  in  a  husky  whisper 
that  no  one  could  hear  but  himself ;  Mr.  Hannaford 
was  beginning  the  tremendous  operation  of  hoisting 
himself  up  on  one  side  of  the  cart  while  Percival,  a 
foot  on  the  step,  was  about  to  swing  himself  up  on 
the  other,  when  Japhra  turned  and  came  back  to  him. 

"Thy  hand  a  last  time,  master  !" 

"Hullo,  what's  this  for?"  Percival  laughed;  but  saw 
Japhra's  face  grave,  and  went  on :  "You  caught  my  eye 
on  the  platform  just  now,  Japhra.  I  saw  you  knew  how 
I  felt.     That's  it,  eh?" 

"Something  of  that,"  Japhra  answered  him.  "Ay, 
a  thought  of  that  came  to  me  then."  The  note  of  his 
voice  was  as  earnest  as  his  eyes,  and  he  added,  "Master, 
there  was  another  matter  to  it  that  I  saw." 

"Well,  you  were  always  the  thought-reader,"  said 
Percival,  and  smiled  at  him  quizzically.  "What  was  it, 
Japhra?" 

"That  thou  art  out  for  something  else  than  we  know." 

"You  could  see  that?  Well,  you  shall  know  to- 
morrow." 

The  earnest  look  in  Japhra's  eyes  went  deeper. 
"Comes  it  so  soon?" 

"A  few  hours,  Japhra." 

There  came  an  impatient  hail  from  Mr.  Hannaford, 
settled  at  last  in  the  trap  above  them. 

"Well,  press  my  hand  to  it,"  Japhra  said;  and  as  he 
held  Percival's  hand,  "press  —  let  me  feel  thy  grip, 
master.  Something  bids  me  to  it.  Ay,  thou  art  strong. 
Be  strong  in  thine  hour." 

As  the  trap  swung  out  of  the  station  yard  Percival 
saw  him  still  standing  there  as  though  he  still  would 
speed  that  message.     He  turned  about  in  his  seat  to  in- 


420  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

elude  Ima  in  his  chatter  with  Mr.  Hannaford,  and  they 
were  not  two  miles  upon  the  road  before  he  was  launched 
upon  what  gave  him  need  for  strength. 

II 

Strangers  were  rare  in  Great  Letham.  Every  figure 
passed  as  they  rattled  through  the  town  was  familiar 
to  Percival.  The  turn  into  the  high  road  took  them  by 
one  —  a  tall,  straight  man  with  something  of  a  stiff  air 
about  him,  as  though  his  clothes  were  uncomfortable  — ■ 
that  looked  at  them  with  a  swift  glance  as  they  overtook 
him. 

"  Hullo,"  said  Percival.  "  That's  a  new  face.  Who's 
that?" 

"Why,  that's  a  bit  of  news  for  you,  partner,"  said  Mr. 
Hannaford.  "Bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  it  ain't. 
There's  two  or  three  o'  them  chaps  about  —  'tecs." 

"  'Tecs  ?  —  detectives  ?  Why,  what's  up,  Mr.  Hanna- 
ford?" 

"There's  been  an  escape  from  Dartmoor  prison. 
Three  of  'em  in  a  fog.     And  one  —  you'd  never  guess  !" 

"Not  old  Hunt?" 

"Hunt  sure  enough,  partner." 

"Hunt  —  good  lord,  poor  old  Egbert  Hunt!  And 
those  chaps?     After  him?     Do  they  think  he's  here?" 

"They  didn't  know  what  to  think,"  said  Mr.  Hanna- 
ford, and  with  a  laugh  at  them  for  their  puzzlement 
went  into  explanation.  A  fortnight  ago  the  escape  was 
made,  it  appeared.  Two  caught  —  one  shot  —  but  Hunt 
still  missing.  Traces  of  him  in  four  burglaries,  and 
each  one  nearer  this  way,  and  now  the  'tecs  here  on 
the  beHef  that  he  was  making  for  the  country-side  he 
knew. 


NEWS   OF  HUNT,   ROLLO  AND   DORA    421 

Percival  met  Ima's  eyes  and  saw  in  them  sympathy 
with  the  feehngs  given  him  by  this  news.  "I  knew  you 
would  be  sorry,"  she  said. 

"Sorry  !  —  why,  Ima,  it's  awful,  it's  dreadful  to  me  to 
think  of  poor  old  Egbert  Hke  that.     One  of  them  shot 

—  and  he  hiding,  terrified,  no  shelter,  no  food.  When 
they  catch  him  —  I  know  what  he  is.     He'll  be  mad 

—  do  anything.     They'll  shoot  him  down,  perhaps." 
She  touched  his  hand  and  he  was  moved  to  catch 

hers  that  touched  him  and  saw  the  blood  tide  up  into 
her  face.  He  had  seen  much  of  her  in  the  -winter  fol- 
lowing his  illness  when  she  had  lived  with  Aunt  Maggie. 
They  were  brother  and  sister,  he  had  told  her  in  those 
days,  and  when  he  had  spoken  of  that  night  on  Bracken 
Down  before  the  fight:  "Oh,  it  is  forgotten,"  she  had 
told  him.  "Forgotten,  and  forgotten  all  the  foolish 
words  I  spoke.  Nothing  in  them,  Percival.  Yes,  you 
are  my  brother.     I  am  your  sister.     That  is  it." 

And  now  was  sister.  He  did  not  notice  that  she  caught 
her  breath  when  the  blood  came  into  her  face  as  he  took 
her  hand,  nor  that  she  disengaged  his  clasp  before  she 
spoke.  Only  that  in  her  gentle  voice,  "You  must  not 
let  it  upset  you,  Percival,"  she  told  him.  "You  are 
coming  back  so  happy.     You  must  not  let  this  spoil  it." 

"But  it  does,"  he  said.  "It  does.  I  can't  enjoy 
myself  —  I  can't  be  happy  while  he's  near  here  perhaps 

—  those  brutes  after  him.  We'll  have  to  look  out  for 
him,  Ima.  You  and  I.  He'll  not  be  afraid  of  us.  We'll 
go  all  round  the  place  together.  He'll  come  to  us  if 
he  sees  us." 

"Yes  —  yes,"  she  said,  and  seemed  glad. 
"What  does  old  Rollo  say?" 

"Ah,  Lord  Burdon  —  Lord  Burdon  is  longing  to  see 
you.     Of  Hunt  I  don't  know  what  he  says.     But  of  you 


422  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

—  Percival,  he's  longing  for  you.  He's  not  been  very 
well.  He's  kept  to  the  house.  He  sent  word  how  he  had 
looked  forward  to  meeting  you  at  the  station  but  could 
not,  and  begged  you  would  go  up  to  him  as  soon  as  ever 
you  arrived.     You  must." 

"Why,  of  course  I  will,"  Percival  said,  and  with 
recollection  of  Rollo  —  and  of  Rollo  longing  for  him  — ■ 
was  temporarily  removed  from  the  gloom  that  had  beset 
him  and  returned  to  the  anticipation  of  all  that  awaited 
him. 

"I  will,  of  course.     He's  not  ill?" 

''He's  ever  so  much  stronger  since  he  came  back. 
Only  a  cold  that  keeps  him  in.  He  has  to  keep  well  for 
the  festivities,  of  course." 

Her  reference  was  to  the  great  twenty-fourth  birth- 
day celebrations  —  the  coming  of  age  according  to  Bur- 
don  tradition  —  and  Percival  agreed  eagerly.  "Why, 
rather  !  He'll  want  all  his  voice  for  the  speeches  !  I 
was  afraid  once  I'd  not  get  back  in  time.  As  it  is,  I've 
only  just  done  it.  The  nineteenth,  next  week,  his  birth- 
day, isn't  it?" 

"Next  Thursday,"  Ima  said,  smiling  to  see  him  smile 
again. 

"Touch  and  go  !"  laughed  Percival.  "I  might  easily 
have  missed  it."  He  turned  to  Mr.  Hannaford.  "]\Ir. 
Hannaford,  you'll  have  to  stay  a  bit  when  we  get  home 

—  have  tea  —  and  then  drive  me  over  to  the  Manor. 
We're  talking  about  Lord  Burdon  and  the  festivities. 
Great  doings,  eh?" 

"Why,  great  doings  is  the  word  for  it,"  said  Mr. 
Hannaford.  "Bless  my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  it  ain't. 
Everybody  in\dted  a  score  o'  miles  round.  Going  to 
roast  a  nox  whole,  marquees  in  the  grounds,  poles  with 
ribbons  on  'em  from  the  church  to  the  Manor — " 


NEWS   OF  HUNT,   ROLLO  AND  DORA    423 

''From  the  church!  What,  is  there  going  to  be  a 
service?" 

"Service!"  said  Mr.  Hannaford.  "Why,  how's  he 
going  to  be  married  without?" 

Percival  almost  jumped  to  his  feet.  "Married!  Is 
he  going  to  be  married?" 

"What,  don't  you  know,  partner?" 

"I've  not  had  letters  for  months.  Married!  Good 
lord,  old  RoUo  married !  Why,  that's  tremendous. 
Ima,  why  ever  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  Married  !  Whom 
to?" 

Mr.  Hannaford  was  enormously  pleased  at  this  ex- 
citement.    "Give  'ee  three  guesses,  partner.'" 

Percival  cried :  "Why,  I  couldn't  guess  in  a  thousand. 
It  fairly  knocks  me.  Old  Rollo  going  to  be  married  ! 
Go  on  — tell  me!" 

"Go  on  —  guess,"  said  Mr.  Hannaford. 

"How  can  I  guess  ?  I  don't  know  his  London  friends. 
I  shan't  even  know  her  name." 

"Well,  you'll  ha'  left  your  memory  where  you  left 
that  string  o'  little  'orses  if  'ee  don't.  Ever  heard  o' 
Upabbot?"  He  twisted  round  to  wink  advertisement 
of  his  humour  to  Ima.  "Got  any  sort  of  a  ghmmering 
rec'lection  of  Abbey  Royal?  —  why.  Miss  Espart!" 


CHAPTER  XII 

PRELUDE    TO    THE    BIG    FIGHT 


Percival  said  in  a  quiet  voice,  "Put  me  down. 
Put  me  down  —  I'm  going  to  walk." 

"So  you're  no  hand  at  guessing,  partner.  Own  up 
to  that,"  was  Mr.  Hannaford's  response.  Then  he  cried, 
"Hi,  what's  up  with  'ee?  What  be  doing?"  for  Perci- 
val had  stretched  a  sudden  hand  to  the  reins  and  the 
horse  swerved  sharply.  "Whoa  ! "  bellowed  Mr.  Hanna- 
ford,  and  dragged  up  with  a  wheel  on  the  brink  of  a  ditch. 
"  Might  ha'  had  us  out ! "  he  turned  on  Percival.  "  Bless 
my  eighteen  stun  proper  if  'ee  mightn't !" 

It  was  a  wild  face  that  fronted  him,  blotchy  in  red  and 
white  as  it  were  freshly  bruised.  "Well,  put  me  down  !" 
Percival  cried  at  him  fiercely.  "Put  me  down  when  I 
ask  you  !"  and  as  he  slowly  drew  the  rug  from  his  knees 
and  put  out  a  foot  to  the  step  he  turned  back  on  Mr. 
Hannaford  and  flamed  "I  suppose  I  can  walk  if  I  want 
to?"  and  dropped  heavily  to  the  road.  His  feet  landed 
on  the  edge  of  the  ditch.  He  blundered  forward  and 
came  with  hands  and  knees  against  the  hedge.  The 
stumble  shook  his  hat  from  his  head  and  he  turned  and 
went  hatless  past  the  tail  of  the  cart  and  a  few  paces 
down  the  road. 

Mr.  Hannaford  released  with  a  rushing  explosion  the 
immense  breath  that  he  had  been  sustaining  during  the 
whole  of  these  proceedings.  He  turned  amazed  eyes  on 
Ima  :  "What's  happened  to  him?' 

424 


I  n 


PRELUDE  TO  THE  BIG  FIGHT         425 

She  sprang  to  the  road.  "Percival!"  and  followed 
him. 

He  turned  at  the  sound  of  her  feet ;  and  at  the  look  on 
his  face  she  stopped. 

"Well?  "he  demanded.     ''Well?     What  is  it  now  ?  " 

*' You  have  left  your  hat,"  she  said.  ''I  wiU  bring  it  to 
you." 

Some  wit  that  came  to  her  gave  her  these  ordinary 
words  in  place  of  questioning  him,  and  he  came  back  to 
her  quickly.  "I  don't  want  my  hat,"  he  told  her.  He 
looked  up  towards  Mr.  Hannaford.  "I'm  sorry  I  pulled 
you  up  like  that.  I  want  to  walk,  that's  all.  I'm  going 
along  the  Ridge  —  to  stretch  my  legs." 

"There's  something  wrong  with  'ee,"  said  Mr.  Hanna- 
ford.    "What  is  it,  boy?" 

"Nothing.     I  want  a  walk,  that's  all." 

Mr.  Hannaford  pointed  across  the  Ridge.  "There's 
a  storm  coming  up.     Best  ride." 

"I'll  be  home  before  that."  He  turned  and  went 
slowly  towards  a  gate  that  gave  to  the  fields  approaching 
the  downside.  Ima  hesitated  and  then  went  swiftly 
after  him  as  he  fumbled  with  the  latch. 

"Percival,  I  will  walk  with  you." 

He  turned  upon  her  a  face  from  which  the  gentler 
mood  was  gone. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake  let  me  alone,"  he  cried,  and  passed 
through  the  gate  and  left  her. 

II 

He  found  that  he  kept  stumbling  as  he  pressed  along. 

He  tried  to  give  attention  to  lifting  his  feet  but  stum- 
bled yet.  He  found  that  he  could  not  think  clearly. 
He  tried  to  take  a  grasp  of  his  thoughts  and  place  them 


426  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

where  he  would  have  them  go,  but  they  persisted  in  form 
of  words  that  Mr.  Hannaford  had  spoken,  in  swift  gleams 
of  pictures  that  answered  the  words  and  then  round 
about  the  words  again.  "Ever  heard  o'  Upabbot?" 
Ah,  every  well-remembered  street  of  it  arose  before  his 
mind  !  "  Got  any  sort  of  a  glimmering  recollection  of 
Abbey  Royal?"  Ah,  he  could  scent  the  very  flowers 
banked  along  the  drive  !  "Why,  Miss  Espart."  Blank- 
ness  then  —  some  thick  oppressive  darkness  suddenly 
shutting  down  upon  him ;  some  bewildering,  vaguely 
sinister  blanket  of  dread  that  stifled  thought  —  then 
suddenly  out  of  it  and  back  again  to  "Ever  heard  o' 
Upabbot?" 

The  ground  beneath  him  flattened  abruptly  under 
his  feet.  He  stumbled  more  violently  than  before,  and 
was  jolted  to  recognition  that  Plowman's  Ridge  was 
gained.  Of  long  habit  he  straightened  himself  to  meet 
the  wind.  It  suited  the  unreal  conditions  that  seemed  to 
surround  him,  it  was  a  part  of  the  dream  in  which  he 
seemed  to  be,  that  something  that  should  have  been  here 
seemed  to  be  missing.  What?  He  stood  a  moment 
looking  dully  about  him.  The  question  merged  into 
and  was  lost  in  the  circle  of  thought  that  beset  him  as  he 
followed  his  right  hand  and  turned  along  the  Ridge. 
He  had  stumbled  a  full  mile  and  more  when  there  struck 
his  face  that  which  informed  him  what  had  been  missing 
when  first  he  reached  the  crest.  Wind  came  against 
him,  and  he  realised  there  had  been  no  wind  where,  ever 
and  like  an  old  friend,  wind  ran  to  greet  him.  Aroused, 
he  pulled  up  short.  He  had  come  far.  That  was  Little 
Letham  lying  beneath  him,  Burdon  Old  Manor  in  those 
trees.  Late  afternoon  gave  before  evening  down  the 
valley.  Heavy  the  wind  and  close.  He  turned  his 
head  and  saw  against  the  further  sky  great  storm  clouds 


PRELUDE  TO  THE  BIG  FIGHT         427 

pressing  down  upon  the  Ridge.  He  raised  his  eyes  and 
saw  a  figure  come  towards  him,  crossing  the  Ridge  and 
walking  fast  from  Little  Letham,  turning  towards  him  as 
he  gave  a  cry. 

"Dora!" 

He  went  forward  some  swift  paces,  the  stumbling  gone 
from  his  feet  and  his  mind  sprung  tensely  out  of  its  dull 
circling ;  then  he  stopped.  She  too  was  halted.  She 
had  turned  sharply  about  at  his  cry  and  was  poised 
towards  him  where  she  turned.  There  were  perhaps 
twenty  yards  between  them,  and  the  quickly  deepening 
gloom  admitted  him  her  face  whitely  and  without  clear 
outline  through  the  dusk.  He  did  not  move,  nor  she. 
There  came  from  her  to  him  a  rattle  of  breeze,  presage 
of  the  storm  that  gathered,  and  he  saw  her  skirts  fan 
out  upon  it.  There  struck  his  face  a  heavy  raindrop, 
skirmishing  before  the  gale,  and  he  drew  a  quick  breath 
and  went  forward  to  her  —  nearer,  and  saw  her  faultless 
face  and  felt  the  blood  drum  in  his  ears ;  nearer,  and  her 
clear  voice  came  to  him  and  he  could  hear  his  heart. 

She  said  :"Percival!" 

"Dora,  I  have  come  back." 

Her  face,  that  he  watched  with  eyes  whose  burning 
he  could  feel,  was  as  emotionless  as  motionless  she  fronted 
him.  It  might  have  been  frozen,  so  still  it  was ;  and  she 
a  carven  thing,  so  still  she  stood  ;  and  her  eyes  set  jewels, 
so  still  were  they.  His  breathing  was  to  be  heard  as  of  one 
that  breathes  beneath  a  heavy  load.  When  she  did  not 
answer  —  and  when  answered  he  knew  himself  by  her 
silence  —  "There  is  only  one  thing  I  want  to  hear  from 
you,"  he  said.     "Tell  me  it." 

Her  voice  was  a  whisper.  "Oh,  must  you  ask  me  that 
already?" 

He  said  stupidly  :  "But  I  have  come  back." 


428  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

She  said :  "O  Percival,  it  is  a  long  time." 

He  had  known  her  voice  precise  and  cold  —  as  icicles 
broken  in  a  cold  hand  !  —  as  was  its  habit  and  as  he 
thrilled  to  hear  it.  He  had  known  it  faltering  and 
atremble  and  scarcely  to  be  heard  when  she  was  in  his 
arms.  Now  there  was  a  new  note  in  it  that  he  heard. 
There  was  a  weary  droop,  as  though  she  were  tired.  "  But 
it  is  a  long  time,"  she  said  again.  "I  asked  you  not  to 
leave  me." 

He  was  trembling.     "Tell  me  what  has  happened." 

Her  reply  was,  "I  asked  you  not  to  leave  me,  Percival.'' 

"You  and  — "  There  was  a  name  he  had  difficulty  in 
saying.  He  turned  away  and  went  a  step,  fighting  for  it 
amiong  the  scenes  in  which  her  words  surrounded  it. 
Then  came  to  her  again  and  pronounced  it.  "You  and 
Rollo.     Is  it  true?" 

"Yes,  it  is  true." 

He  said  brokenly  :  "But  I  have  held  you  in  my  arms. 
How  can  it  be  true  ?  I  have  kissed  you  and  you  have 
kissed  me  and  clung  to  me.  You  have  loved  me.  I 
have  come  back  for  you.     How  can  it  be  true  ?  " 

Her  face  answered  him.  Beneath  his  words  the  crim- 
son flamed  as  though  in  crimson  blood  it  would  burst 
upon  her  cheeks  —  flamed  in  those  strange  pools  of 
colour  where  her  colour  lay,  and  drove  her  white  as 
driven  snow  about  them  —  flamed  and  called  his  own 
blood  as  flame  bursts  out  of  flame.  He  caught  her  in 
his  arms.  "You  are  mine  !  What  has  he  done  to  you? 
Mine,  mine,  what  has  he  dared  ?" 

She  struggled  and  pressed  her  face  away  from  his  that 
approached  it.  "You  must  not!  You  must  not !  Per- 
cival, you  must  not !" 

"Ah,  your  voice,  your  voice  tells  me  that  you  are 
mine!"  he  cried:    and  cried  it  again  in  revulsion  of 


PRELUDE   TO  THE   BIG   FIGHT  429 

triumph  over  the  unthinkable  torment  that  had  pos- 
sessed him.  ''Your  voice  tells  me  !"  and  again  in  sav- 
agery of  heat  at  a  thought  of  Rollo,  ''Mine  —  your  voice 
tells  me  you  are  mine!" 

The  colour  was  gone  from  her  face.  She  was  so  white 
and  so  still  in  his  arms  that  he  desisted  the  action  of  his 
face  towards  her,  but  held  her  close,  close.  There  came 
from  her  lips  :  "No,  no  !  you  must  not.     It  is  wrong." 

"How  can  it  be  wrong  ?  You  say  No,  but  your  voice 
tells  me.     I  have  come  back  for  you,  my  Dora." 

"Ah,  be  kind  to  me,  Percival." 

"How  should  I  be  unkind  to  my  darling?" 

He  felt  a  tremor  run  through  her.  "You  must  not  call 
me  that,  Percival.  It  should  never  have  been.  I 
thought  you  would  forget." 

What,  had  he  not  triumphed  then?  Torment  came 
ravening  back  at  him  again  like  a  wild  thing,  and  with 
a  sudden  burst  and  clamour,  shaking  him  where  he  stood, 
old  friend  wind  with  that  old  hail  —  or  mock  ?  —  of 
ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  in  his  ears.  He  said  intensely :  "  You  thought 
I  would  forget  ?  While  I  was  away  you  thought  I  would 
forget?     Dora,  you  never  thought  it!" 

She  stirred  in  his  clasp  to  disengage  herself:  "No,  no 
—  before  that.     When  we  were  together." 

He  broke  out:  "Explain!  Explain!"  He  let  her 
from  his  arms  and  she  stood  away  from  him,  stress  on  her 
face.  "Oh,  there  is  something  I  do  not  understand  in 
this,"  he  cried.     "Explain  —  tell  me." 

She  told  it  him.  "Percival,  I  was  always  to  marry 
Rollo,"  she  said. 

He  stared  at  her.     "How  can  you  mean  —  always?" 

"I  should  have  told  you.     I  knew  it." 

He  pronounced  in  a  terrible  voice  "Rollo  !"  Then  he 
said  thickly:   "What,   when   you   were   with   me  —  in 


430  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

those  days,  those  days  !  You  knew  it  ?  He  had  spoken 
to  you  then?" 

She  caught  her  hands  to  her  bosom  in  an  action  of 
despair.  "No,  no  !"  she  cried ;  and  then,  "Oh,  how  can 
I  explain?"  and  then  found  the  word  that  helped  her 
with  force  of  a  thousand  words  to  name  her  meaning. 
"It  was  —  holiday,"  she  said. 

He  remembered  it.  He  remembered,  and  its  memory 
came  like  a  lamp  to  guide  him.  He  said  slowly,  "When 
Rollo  went  —  I  remember  you  were  different.  Dora, 
do  you  mean  it  was  always  arranged  you  were  to  marry 
Rollo?" 

She  said,  "Always  —  always  !" 

He  cried,  "But  you  loved  me  !" 

She  wrung  her  hands  at  that,  and  cried  in  the  most 
pitiful  way,  "I  thought  you  would  forget.  I  don't 
know  what  I  thought.  It  was  holiday.  It  should  not 
have  been.     Oh,  why  must  we  talk  of  it?" 

"Dora,  they  are  forcing  you  to  marry  him." 

"I  was  always  to,  Percival.     I  was  always  to." 

"You  want  to?" 

"Well,  I  was  always  to." 

Her  voice  was  that  of  a  child  whose  young  intelligence 
by  no  means  can  take  a  lesson.  Sufficient  to  one  such 
that  the  thing  is  so  as  he  sees  it  and  cannot  be  other- 
wise ;  and  to  her  sufficient  —  trained  and  schooled  and 
cloistered  for  that  sufficiency — ^that,  as  she  said,  she  was 
always  to.  Ah,  she  had  had  holiday,  but  not  enough  to 
loose  her ;  she  had  tossed  among  the  flowers,  but  had 
fluttered  home  at  nights.  Now  the  mate  she  toyed  with 
was  knocking  at  her  prison ;  she  could  see  and  could 
remember,  but  she  could  not  fly.  Quickly  after  the  end 
of  their  months  together,  and  very  certainly  after  Rollo's 
return,  she  had  discovered  what  long  she  had  dimly 


PRELUDE   TO   THE   BIG  FIGHT  431 

seen.  Clearly  the  purpose  and  the  walls  and  the  end  of 
her  training  had  been  presented  to  her.  Passively  she 
had  accepted  them. 

But  how  explain  it?  How  explain  what  herself  she 
did  not  know  ?  She  looked  from  night  that  came  steal- 
ing up  the  valley  to  his  face  that  had  a  shade  of  night. 
She  heard  the  wind  that  now  was  in  gusty  beat  against 
them,  and  above  the  sound  could  hear  his  breathing. 
She  could  only  wring  her  hands  and  say  again :  "Perci- 
val,  I  was  always  to;"  and  when  he  did  not  answer, 
"Let  me  go  now,  Percival." 

He  answered  her  then.  "You  loved  me.  How  can 
you  do  this?  You  loved  me.  Why  did  you  not  tell 
me?" 

She  cried  as  if  she  were  distracted,  "Oh,  oh  !  I  asked 
you  not  to  leave  me.  It  was  a  long  time.  You  were 
not  here." 

He  caught  on  to  that.  "I  am  here  now.  It  shall  not 
be.     Dora,  I  am  here  now  !" 

"It  is  done,"  she  said.     "It  is  done  !" 

He  seemed  for  the  first  time  to  realise  the  complete 
abandonment,  the  unresisting  resignation  to  her  fate, 
that  was  in  her  every  word  and  tone.  His  voice  went 
very  low. 

"Dora,  are  you  going  to  marry  him  ?" 

"I  was  always  to."  It  was  the  beginning  and  the 
end  of  her  will.  "I  was  always  to."  She  had  no  ques- 
tion of  it. 

He  threw  up  his  arms  in  wild  despair  at  its  repetition. 
"0  my  God!  What  a  thing  to  tell  me!  What  a 
thing  to  be  !  Why  ?  WTiy  ?  Do  you  love  him  ?  Is 
he  anything  to  you?  Why  were  you  always  to  marry 
him?" 

She  gave  the  reason  her  mother  had  never  concealed 


432  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

from  her.  "He  is  Lord  Burdon.  It  was  arranged  long 
ago.     My  mother  — " 

The  sound  he  made  stopped  her.  As  if  he  had  been 
stabbed  and  choked  his  hfe  out  on  the  blow,  "Ah!" 
he  cried.  "That  is  it.  Because  he  is  what  he  is.  If 
he  were  like  me  this  would  never  have  happened.  If 
he  were  not  what  he  is  it  would  be  ended." 

She  appealed  "Percival  !  Percival  !"  wrung  her  hands 
and  turned  and  went  a  step.  When  she  looked  again 
she  saw  his  face  as  none  had  ever  seen  it,  twisted  in  pain 
and  dark  with  worse  than  pain.  He  was  not  looking  at 
her,  but  down  upon  Little  Letham  where  Burdon  Old 
Manor  lay.  She  approached  him  and  spoke  his  name, 
touched  him,  but  he  did  not  move.  | 

She  left  him  there  and  once  looked  back.  He  still  stood 
as  she  had  left  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   BIG  FIGHT   OPENS 


There  had  been  one  years  before  that  had  cried, 
*'You  are  Lord  Burdon  !"  and  one  that  had  received  it, 
first  in  light  mock  at  its  folly,  then  in  bewilderment  at 
its  truth.  There  was  one  cried  the  same  words  at  "Post 
Offic"  on  this  night  and  one,  groaning  in  torment  of 
spirit,  that  put  it  aside  as  a  jest  untimely,  then,  convinced 
of  it,  got  to  his  feet  and  heard  as  it  were  the  world  shatter-  • 
ing  to  pieces  in  his  ears. 

The  gathering  storm  had  opened  and  was  driving 
along  the  Ridge  in  its  first  onset  of  rain  when  at  last 
Percival  turned  where  Dora  had  left  him,  wrenched  him- 
self about  as  though  his  feet  were  rooted,  and  brought  to 
Aunt  Maggie  the  dark  and  working  face  that  had  stared 
down  upon  the  Old  Manor.  Ima  had  told  Aunt  Maggie 
of  his  strange  behaviour  when  he  had  stopped  the  cart. 
When  he  arrived  she  was  up-stairs  in  her  room,  crying  a 
little,  wanting  to  be  alone.  Aunt  Maggie,  Ima's  fears 
communicated  to  her,  awaited  him  alone  in  the  parlour. 
He  opened  the  door  fiercely  and  came  in  dripping  from  the 
streaming  night.  She  gave  a  little  cry  at  sight  of  his 
face  and  rose  and  stretched  her  hands  towards  him.  The 
sudden  peace  in  here,  exchanged  for  the  buffeting  of  the 
night,  reacted  on  the  tumult  of  his  mind  and  forced  him 
to  discharge  it. 

433 


434  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

"0  Aunt  Maggie  !    Aunt  Maggie  !"  he  said. 

"  My  Percival !     What  is  it  ?  " 

He  took  both  her  hands  that  were  extended  to  him; 
then  was  acted  upon  anew  by  her  loving  eyes,  and 
clasped  her  to  him  and  she  felt  sobs  shaking  his  strong 
frame. 

"Percival !     Percival !     What  has  happened  to  you  ?" 

He  let  her  go  and  dropped  into  a  chair  against  the 
table,  put  his  hands  to  his  head  and  while  she  saw  his 
shoulders  heaving  she  saw  the  raindrops  running  through 
his  fingers  from  his  hair.  She  went  before  him,  and 
stretching  her  arms  across  the  table  encircled  liis  wrists 
with  her  hands.  They  were  burning  to  her  touch. 
"Percival,  it  is  torturing  to  me  to  see  you  like  this. 
Tell  me,  tell  me!" 

He  took  her  hands.  "Oh,  I  am  in  torture,"  he  said, 
and  she  saw  the  torture  burning  in  his  eyes.  "Aunt 
Maggie,  Aunt  Maggie,  I  loved  Dora.  I  never  told  you. 
I  was  to  tell  you  to-night.     I  had  come  back  for  her." 

She  felt  a  sense  go  through  her  as  of  a  sword  turned 
within  her. 

"ButRollo!"  she  said. 

His  hands  crushed  hers  so  that  she  had  pain.  "Yes, 
Rollo!"  he  said.  "I  nearly  went  to  him  to-night.  I 
shaUgoyet.     Rollo!     Rollo!     Rollo!" 

He  ground  the  name  between  his  teeth.  The  pressure 
of  his  hands  on  hers  became  almost  insufferable.  She 
felt  it  as  nothing  to  what  shook  her  brain.  She  was  back 
at  the  bedside  in  the  Holloway  Road.  She  was  spun 
through  the  years  of  her  waiting,  waiting.  She  was 
fronted  with  the  torments  when  that  for  which  she  waited 
had  seemed  to  be  snatched  from  her.  There  filled  the 
room  and  stooped  towards  her  the  figure  that  she  en- 
visaged as  fate,  that  had  stayed  her  hand,  that  she 


THE  BIG  FIGHT  OPENS  435 

obeyed,  that  had  tried  her,  that  had  fought  for  her,  that 
now  was  come  to  prove  itself  fate  indeed. 

In  one  part  she  was  dizzy  and  overcome  with  the 
shaking  at  her  brain ;  in  the  other  she  was  Ustening  to 
Percival  and  worse  beset  at  every  word.  "I  have  seen 
her,"  he  said,  "I  have  seen  her  to-night.  They  are 
forcing  her  to  this.  They  have  arranged  it  for  years  — 
arranged  it !  Bought  her  and  sold  her  because  he  is 
what  he  is.  Aunt  Maggie,  she  loved  me  for  myself. 
He  comes  in  !  he  comes  in  !  he  comes  in  !  and  takes  her 
because  he  is  Lord  Burdon." 

The  shaking  at  her  brain  pitched  suddenly  to  a  tensest 
balance  Hke  a  machine  that  rattles  up  to  action  then 
tunes  to  a  level  spinning. 

"He  is  not  Lord  Burdon  !"  she  said. 

He  was  silent  but  he  did  not  heed  her. 

*'He  is  not  Lord  Burdon!" 

At  her  repetition  he  moved  quickly  in  his  seat  and  re- 
laxed his  hands .     "  Oh ,  why  say  that  ?     Why  say  that  ?  " 

"You  are  Lord  Burdon  !" 

He  let  her  hands  go  and  pressed  his  own  again  to  his 
head.  "Can  you  only  talk  like  that  when  you  see  me 
suffering?" 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  "Percival !  Percival,  Hsten  to 
me.  It  is  true.  It  is  what  I  have  kept  for  you  these 
years.  It  is  what  I  have  meant  when  I  told  you  I  had 
something  for  you.     You  are  Lord  Burdon  !" 

He  also  stood.  "Are  you  mad.  Aunt  Maggie?  Are 
you  mad?" 

She  staggered  back  against  the  wall.  While  he  stared 
at  her  as  he  questioned  her  sanity,  while  she  saw  the  look 
in  his  eyes  as  he  asked  her,  there  came  to  her  with  a 
shock  of  sudden  fear,  as  to  one  that  has  released  a  wild 
and  mighty  thing  and  shudders  to  have  done  it,  the 


I 


436  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

words  Japhra  had  said:  "Mistress,  beware  lest  thou 
betrayest  him  !" 

He  came  swiftly  to  her  and  roughly  caught  her.  "Are 
you  mad  ?     What  is  this  ?  " 

She  recovered  herself.  "Do  you  know  that  box  in  your 
room?" 

The  locked  box  was  an  old  joke  of  his.  "What  has 
that  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"The  proofs  are  there.     You  shall  see." 

"Show  me,"  he  said,  his  voice  not  to  be  recognised  for 
any  he  had  spoken  with.     "Show  me  !" 

She  steadied  herself  against  a  chair,  and  steadying 
herself  by  all  her  hand  came  against  as  she  walked,  went 
across  the  room  to  the  stairs,  he  following.  There  came 
at  that  moment  a  loud  knock  upon  the  outer  door.  He 
went  dazedly  to  it  and  stared  with  unattending  eyes  at 
one  who  stood  there,  the  light  shining  on  his  heavy 
waterproof  coat  that  streamed  with  rain.  It  was  the 
strange  man  whom  they  had  overtaken  as  the  cart  came 
out  of  Great  Letham. 

"The  convict  Hunt's  been  seen  near  by,"  said  the  man 
abruptly.  "Me  and  my  mates  thought  it  right  to  tell 
the  village." 

Percival  closed  the  door  upon  him  without  a  word. 
"Show  me,"  he  repeated  to  Aunt  Maggie,  and  followed 
her  to  her  room. 

II 

He  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed  while  she  told  him  his 
story.  He  sat  motionless  and  with  his  face  immobile. 
There  was  only  one  action  that  betrayed  he  was  under 
any  emotion.  His  chin  was  forward  on  his  hand,  elbow 
on  knee.     His  lingers  came  across  his  mouth,  and  in  the 


I 


THE   BIG   FIGHT   OPENS  437 

knuckle  of  one  he  set  his  teeth.  Blood  was  there  when  he 
drew  his  hand  away. 

She  finished :  "It  is  all  here,  letters,  certificates.  Your 
mother's  letters,  Percival,  and  your  father's.  They  are 
all  in  order  from  the  first.  There  is  one  here  to  his 
grandmother  and  one  to  his  lawyer  telKng  them  of  his 
marriage.  He  left  those  with  her  when  he  went  away. 
Then  the  letters  from  India." 

He  drew  his  hand  from  his  mouth,  the  blood  on  his 
fist.  "Leave  me  alone,"  he  said.  "Go  away,  Aunt 
Maggie,  and  leave  me  to  look  at  them  alone." 

There  was  that  in  his  voice  which  smote  terribly  across 
her  spinning  brain  and  caused  her  to  obey  him. 

Ill 

An  hour  he  was  occupied  in  reading  the  yellowed  sheets 
whose  heritage  he  was ;  for  long  thereafter  sat  and  stared 
upon  them.  These  devoted  fines  in  that  round  hand  were 
his  mother's :  his  father's  those  ardent  passions  in  those 
bold  characters ;  he  their  son.  He  felt  himself  a  shame- 
less fistener  to  penetrate  these  tender  secrets ;  he  felt 
himself  a  little  child  that  hears  his  parents'  voices. 
Sometimes,  in  that  first  mood,  the  blood  ran  hotly  to  his 
cheeks;  sometimes,  in  that  second,  there  came  sobs  to 
his  throat  and  great  trembling.  Memories  of  thoughts, 
impulses,  happenings  that  had  been  strange,  returned 
to  him,  crowding  upon  him;  here  was  their  meaning, 
their  interpretation  here.  In  the  Hbrary  with  Mr. 
Amber,  "thinking  without  thinking  as  if  I  was  in  some 
one  else  who  was  thinking, "  shadows  about  the  room  and 
a  moth  thudding  the  window-pane  —  here  the  secret  of 
it !  In  the  library  with  Mr.  Amber  and  the  old  man's 
cry:  "Why  do  you  stretch  your  hand  so,  my  lord?"  — 


438  THE   HAPPY   WARRIOR 

here  the  answer  !  In  presence  of  death  with  Mr.  Amber, 
and  "Hold  my  hand,  my  lord"  —  here  what  had  opened 
Mr.  Amber's  eyes.  In  dreams  in  Burdon  House,  and 
searching,  searching,  and  all  the  rooms  familiar,  and  a 
voice  that  had  cried,  "My  son,  my  son  !  Oh,  we  have 
waited  for  you  ! "  —  here,  here,  the  key  to  it  —  here  that 
voice  in  those  yellowed  sheets  —  here,  here,  what  he  had 
searched,  streaming  from  those  papers,  tingling  his  skin, 
filUng  his  throat  as  though  from  the  faded  Knes  strong 
essences  rushed  and  pressed  about  him.  His  mother  !  — 
he  spoke  the  word  aloud,  "Mother!"  His  father!  — 
"Father  !"   Their  son,  "I  am  your  son  !  .  .  .  " 

Of  a  sudden  he  was  returned  to  the  present.  Of  a 
sudden  he  was  snatched  up  from  realisation  of  what  had 
been,  and  what  was,  and  pitched  into  battle  of  what  was 
now  to  be.  Out  of  a  churchyard,  out  of  a  graveside 
where  gentle  thoughts  arise,  into  the  street,  into  the 
business  where  the  din  goes  up  !  So  he  was  hurled,  and 
as  one  that  gasps  on  sudden  immersion  in  icy  water,  as 
one  gripped  in  panic's  hold  that  comes  out  of  sleep  to 
sudden  peril,  so,  as  he  faced  the  thing  that  was  come  to 
him,  he  cried  out  hoarsely,  knew  horror  upon  him,  and 
shut  his  eyes  and  pressed  his  hands  against  them  as 
though  his  lids  alone  could  not  blind  what  picture  was 
before  him.  In  one  instant  fierce,  fierce,  exultant 
triumph ;  in  the  next  torment  that  reeled  him  where  he 
stood.  In  one  instant  himself  that  an  hour  before  had 
stood  looking  balefully  down  upon  Burdon  Old  Manor; 
that  had  cried  to  Aunt  Maggie:  "Rollo!  Rollo ! 
Rollo!"  and  knew  it  for  a  thrice-repeated  curse;  that 
had  cried :  "  I  was  going  to  him  !  I  shall  go  to  him  yet ! " 
and  knew  his  hands  tingle  and  his  brain  leap  at  the 
thought ;  in  the  next,  nay,  immediate  with  the  flash  and 
flame  of  it,  Rollo  that  from  childhood's  days  had  leant 


THE  BIG  FIGHT  OPENS  439 

upon  him ;  that  he  had  brothered,  fathered,  loved ;  that 
had  cried  to  him  —  ah,  God,  God  !  how  the  words  came 
back  ! —  "Everything  I've  got  is  yours  —  you  know  that, 
don't  you,  old  man?"  That  had  cried,  "I'm  never 
really  happy  except  when  I'm  with  you ;"  that  had  said, 
"I  want  some  one  to  look  after  me  —  the  kind  of  chap  I 
am ;  a  shy  ass  and  delicate." 

He  dropped  on  the  bed  in  the  tumult  of  his  torment. 
He  writhed  to  his  knees  and  flung  himself  against  the 
bed,  his  fingers  twisting  in  the  quilt,  his  face  between  his 
outstretched  arms.  He  had  burned  with  fury  to  face 
Rollo  and  crush  him  down.  The  weapon  was  in  hig 
hands.  Ah,  ah,  too  strong,  too  sharp,  too  cruel !  New 
thoughts  brought  him  to  his  feet.  Strongly  he  arose 
and  shook  himself.  What,  was  he  weakening  toward  a 
sentiment?  "Everything  I've  got  is  yours"  —  but 
Dora  taken  from  him  !  "  Everything  I've  got  is  yours  !  " 
—  it  was  !  it  was  !  and  Dora  with  it !  Always  arranged 
because  he  was  Lord  Burdon  !  His  darhng  sold  to  Rollo 
and  bought  by  Rollo  because  Rollo  was  what  he  was  ! 
And  he  was  not  it !  He  was  not  it !  This  night,  this 
hour  he  should  know  it ! 

This  night  ?  There  came  to  him  the  vision  of  Rollo  he 
had  had  when  they  told  him  Rollo  could  not  come  to  the 
station  to  meet  him  but  begged  he  would  go  up  to  him 
directly  he  arrived.  He  had  pictured  old  Rollo  coming 
to  him  with  eager,  outstretched  hands.  Rollo  was 
waiting  for  him  now,  expecting  him  every  moment, 
would  so  come  to  him  if  he  went,  would  so  come  to  him 
if  he  waited  till  to-morrow ;  and  how  would  look  when  he 
spoke  and  told  ?  The  years  ran  back  and  answered  him. 
There  came  to  him  clearly  as  yesterday  that  first  visit  to 
Mr.  Hannaford's  when  he  had  been  flushed  with  excite- 
ment and  praise  at  riding  the  Httle  black  horse  and  had 


440  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

turned  to  see  Rollo  shrinking  as  he  stood  away,  distress 
and  tears  working  in  his  face.  So  he  would  look  now. 
Then  he  had  vcouraged  Rollo  —  as  all  through  Hfe 
thereafter  he  had  heartened  him.  Now  ?  Now  he  was  to 
strike  the  appealing  face  that  then  and  ever  had  looked 
to  him  for  aid.  .  .  . 

How  do  it?  How  do  it?  Why  hesitate?  Why 
hesitate?  How  strike  him?  Why  spare  him?  How 
break  him?  Why  let  him  go?  Like  live  wild  things 
the  questions  came  at  him  and  tore  him ;  as  one  in  direst 
torment  there  broke  from  his  lips  "O  God,  my  God  !" : 
as  one  pursued  he  burst  from  the  room,  through  the 
parlour  where  Aunt  Maggie  stretched  hands  and  cried 
to  him,  out  into  the  night  where  tempest  raged  and 
blackness  was  —  fierce  as  his  own,  black  as  the  thoughts 
he  sought  to  race. 

Out,  out,  as  one  pursued  !  Away,  away,  to  shake 
pursuit !  And  caught  as  he  ran,  screamed  at  as  he 
stumbled  on,  by  all  the  howling  pack  that  gathered 
strength  and  fury  as  he  fled.  His  feet  took  the  Down ; 
full  the  tempest  struck  him  as  he  breasted  it;  ah,  ah, 
more  violent  the  furies  fought  within  !  Thunder  broke 
sheer  above  him  out  of  heaven  with  detonation  like  a 
thousand  guns;  he  staggered  at  the  immensity  of  it; 
on,  on,  for  furious  more  what  joined  in  shock  of  battle  in 
his  brain  !  A  sword  of  lightning  showed  him  the  Ridge 
and  seemed  to  shake  it  where  it  lay.  He  gained  the 
crest  and  turned  along  it  and  knew  in  his  ears  old  friend 
wind  in  howling  mock  of  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  to  see  this  fruitless 
race. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


ALWAYS  VICTORY 


He  came  over  against  Burdon  Old  Manor  and  stopped 
and  knew  himself  where  he  had  stood  with  Dora  three 
hours  before.  His  exertions  had  run  him  to  the  end  of 
his  physical  strength.  He  sank  to  his  knees,  and  there, 
like  vultures  swooping  to  their  stricken  prey,  the  tor- 
ments he  had  raced  from  came  at  him  in  last  assault; 
there  had  him  writhing  on  the  sodden  ground.  .  .  . 

In  their  stress,  as  a  hand  put  down  to  touch  him  where 
he  writhed,  a  sudden  recollection  came  —  himself  with 
Japhra  by  the  van  by  Fir-Tree  pool;  Japhra  with  a 
lighted  match  cupped  against  his  face  and  Japhra 's 
words:  "Listen  to  me,  master.  Listen  to  me  —  thy 
type  runneth  hot  through  life  till  at  last  it  cometh  to  the 
big  fight.  Send  me  news  of  that.  Send  only  'The 
Big  Fight,  Japhra.'  I  shall  know  the  winner."  Ah, 
here  was  the  Big  Fight,  saved  for  him,  growing  for  him 
through  these  years  and  now  released  upon  him!  "I 
shall  know  the  winner."  He  crouched  lower  beneath 
the  storm,  and  in  his  inward  storm  buried  his  fingers  in 
the  sodden  turf.  ''I  shall  know  the  winner"  —  ah, 
God,  God,  which  was  victory  and  which  defeat?  To 
win  Dora,  to  take  all  that  was  his  and  she,  his  darling, 
with  it,  but  against  Rollo  to  use  this  hideous  thing :  was 

44.1 


442  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

that  victory  ?  To  lose  all,  all,  to  let  his  darling  go,  but 
to  spare  Rollo :  was  victory  there  ?  Was  that  victory 
with  such  a  prize  ?  his  Dora  won  ?  Yes,  that  was  victory, 
victory  !  Was  that  victory  at  such  a  price,  Rollo  spared, 
his  darling  lost  ?  Could  he  bear  to  see  his  darling  go  ? 
Endure  to  live  and  know  whose  son  he  was?  Watch 
Rollo  with  his  darling  and  keep  his  secret  sheathed  ? 
Was  victory  there  ?  No,  no,  defeat  —  defeat  unthink- 
able, impossible,  not  to  be  borne  !  He  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  another  thought  came  at  him  and  gripped  him. 
Japhra  again:  "Get  at  the  Httleness  of  it  —  get  at  the 
Httleness  of  it.  It  will  pass."  Ah,  easy,  futile  words; 
ah,  damnable  philosophy  !  Was  littleness  here  ?  Was 
littleness  in  this?  "Remember  what  endureth.  Not 
man  nor  man's  work  —  only  the  green  things,  only  the 
brown  earth  that  to-day  humbly  supports  thee,  to-mor- 
row obscurely  covers  thee.  Lay  hold  on  that  when  aught 
vexeth  thee;   all  else  passeth." 

The  Big  Fight  had  him ;   in  its  agony  he  cried  aloud, 
threw  up  his  arms  and  fell  again  to  his  knees. 


n 

So  Ima  found  him. 

When  he  had  burst  from  the  house,  when  Aunt  Maggie 
had  followed  him  and  cried  after  him  into  the  night, 
when  she  had  returned  and  for  a  while  wrestled  with  fear 
of  what  she  had  seen  in  his  face,  she  went  to  the  httle 
room  that  was  set  apart  for  Ima  and  in  sharp  agony,  in 
dreadful  possession  of  that  "Mistress,  beware  lest  thou 
betrayest  him,"  had  cried  "Ima,  Ima,  go  to  him  !  go  to 
him!" 

And  Ima,  taking  Aunt  Maggie's  hands  and  staring  in 


ALWAYS  A/lCiORY  443 

her  face,  "What  has  happened  to  him?  What  has 
happened  to  him  ?  I  heard  him  in  his  room  alone.  I 
knew  something  had  happened  to  him." 

The  other  could  only  say  :  "  Go  to  him,  Ima  !  Go  ! 
He  must  not  be  alone  !" 

She  was  at  once  obeyed ;  her  voice  and  face,  and  name- 
less dread  that  had  been  with  Ima  since  Percival  had 
left  the  cart  and  while  she  heard  him  in  his  room,  com- 
manded it. 

''How  will  you  find  him?"  Aunt  Maggie  asked. 

Hatless  and  without  covering  against  the  storm,  Ima 
went  to  the  outer  door.  ''He  will  be  on  Plowman's 
Ridge,"  she  said.     "I  shall  find  him." 

Some  instinct  took  her  along  the  very  path  that  he  had 
followed.  Some  fear  put  her  to  speed.  Her  heart  that 
he  had  silenced  on  Bracken  Down  and  that  never  again 
she  had  permitted  him  to  see,  carried  her  to  him.  She 
ran  with  her  skirts  taken  in  her  left  hand,  gipsy  again  in 
her  free  and  tireless  action,  gipsy  when  at  the  summit 
of  the  Ridge  instinct  directed  her  without  hesitancy  to 
the  right,  gipsy  when  in  the  blackness  she  almost  ran 
upon  him  and  a  second  time  revealed  him  what  he  was 
to  her. 

He  cried,  "Ima!  Why  are  you  here ? "  but  carried 
his  surprise  no  further. 

"Percival,  what  has  come  to  thee?" 

"O  Ima,  leave  me  alone  !  leave  me  alone  !" 

"Ah,  let  me  help  thee!" 

He  cried,  "None  can  —  none  can  help  me!  Leave 
me  !  leave  me  !"  Almost  he  struck  her  with  his  frantic 
arms  that  pressed  her  from  him.  She  nothing  cared, 
but  caught  them : 

"Ah,  suffer  me  to  help  thee.  Look  how  I  have  come  to 
thee.     I  healed  thee  once." 


444  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Her  voice,  and  memories  of  her  touch  when  he  had  lain 
sick,  acted  upon  him.  "Hold  my  hands,  then.  I  must 
hold  something.  Hold  them,  hold  them !  O  Ima, 
I  am  suffering,  suffering  !" 

"That  is  why  I  am  come.  Your  hands  burn  in  mine 
and  tremble."  t 

"Klind  Ima  !"  he  said  brokenly.     "Kind  Ima  !"   and  | 

put  her  hands  to  his  face.  ' 

She  caught  at  her  breath.  There  came  a  sudden 
lull  in  the  storm  as  though  the  wind  paused  for  words 
she  tried  to  make. 

"Some  one  is  running  to  us,"  Percival  cried,  and  took 
his  hands  from  her;  stepped  where  approaching  feet 
sounded  and  suddenly  caught  one  that  ran  into  his  arms. 

"Who  are  you?"  Then  peered  and  then  cried, 
"Hunt!" 

The  figure  that  he  held  panted  for  breath.  "I'm 
going  to  him  —  me  lord,"  Hunt  said,  and  laughed  with 
the  words. 

Percival  went  back  a  step  and  there  came  to  Ima's 
ears  his  breathing,  heavy  as  Hunt's  that  laboured  from 
his  run.     "What  do  you  mean  ?" 

Again  the  laugh.  "I  heard,  me  lord.  Like  as  I 
heard  that  odd  bit  in  the  hall  at  the  Manor  years  back 
and  never  forgot  it  that  day  to  this." 

"How  did  you  hear?" 

"I  come  to  you.  I  come  to  you  hiding,  knowing  you'd 
be  kind  as  was  the  only  one  ever  kind  to  me.  Hid  in 
your  bedroom  back  of  the  screen,  you  not  being  there. 
Saw  you  come  in  and  heard  — "  3(! 

His  sentence  was  broken  in  the  savage  hands  with  which 
Percival  caught  his  collar  and  shook  him.  "What  did 
you  hear  ?    What  ?    What  ?  " 

"Leave  off  of  me  !     You're  choking  of  me." 


ALWAYS  VICTORY  445 

"What  did  you  hear?" 

"Y're  Lord  Burdon.     Not  him  —  not  that—" 

He  was  swung  from  his  feet  by  Percival's  grasp. 
' '  What  now  ?     What  now,  Hunt  ?  " 

"Leave  off  of  me  !     Leave  off  !     You're  killing  me." 

The  grip  relaxed,  and  Hunt  shook  himself  free,  and 
tossed  his  arms.  "What  now  ?  "  he  echoed,  and  had  hate 
and  dreadful  laughter  in  the  scream  his  words  made. 
■'What  now  !  I  come  out  for  him  !  For  Mm  and  'er 
as  put  me  away  and  as  I  told  her  in  the  dock  I'd  come. 
Straight  for  'em  I  come.  Straight  for  'em  with  the 
police  after  me.  Stole  this  for  'em  and  come  to  give  it 
'em."  He  drew  from  his  jacket  what  gleamed  in  his 
hand  as  he  shook  it  aloft.  "Come  to  shoot  'em  like 
dogs  as  used  me  like  dogs,  the  bloody  tyrangs.  I've 
got  better  for  'em  now.  They  can  go  free  —  free ! 
turned  out !  turned  out !  chucked  into  the  street ! 
kicked  out !  Think  of  'em  !  Think  of  'em  crying  and 
howHng  and  beggars  and  laughed  at  and  pointed  at ! 
That's  what  I'm  going  to  give  'em.  Into  my  hand 
God  Almighty  what  casts  down  the  oppressors  and 
the  tyrangs  has  delivered  'em !  That's  what  — 
ar-r-r  !" 

Percival  was  on  him  and  threw  him.  His  throat  was 
in  Percival's  clutch  and  his  hands  tearing  at  the  hands 
that  throttled  him. 

"You  are  not!"  Percival  cried.  "You  are  not.  By 
God,  you  shall  not !" 

In  those  wild  words  of  Hunt's  and  what  they  meant  — 
the  world's  mockery ;  in  that  vile  face  and  what  it  stood 
for  —  the  world's  cruelty,  clearly  there  came  to  him  the 
answer  that  vainly  in  his  torment  he  had  sought.  Rollo 
face  this?  Rollo  to  this  be  subjected?  Rollo  suffer 
ejection  from  home  and  name  ?     Ah,  now  he  knew  which 


446  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

in  the  big  fight  had  been  defeat  and  which  was  victory. 
*'Rollo  !  Rollo  !  Rollo  !"  he  had  cried,  and  cried  it  as 
a  curse.  "Rollo!  Rollo!  Rollo!"  now  beat  in  his 
brain  and  in  his  grinding  fingers  and  was  pulse  of  the 
old  protection  throbbing  for  his  friend  that  ever  had 
been  more  than  brother  to  him. 

"Percival,  you  are  killing  him  !"  —  Ima's  fingers  were 
on  his,  pulhng  his  grip. 

"Keep  away  !  keep  away  !"  he  cried.  "I'll  have  his 
life  if  need  be  !"  and  to  Hunt,  livid  and  at  last  gasp: 
"You  damned  devil!  You  damned  de\'il !  What  are 
you  going  to  promise  me  ?  How  am  I  going  to  bind  you  ? 
What  am  I  going  to  do  with  you?" 

There  came  gaspingly:  "Promise  —  promise  —  oath 
to  it." 

He  relaxed  his  fingers,  and  as  Hunt  drew  gasping 
breaths,  "You  damned  devil!"  he  cried  again.  "You 
damned  fool.  Did  you  not  hear  talk  of  proofs? 
Nothing  in  them  !  Nothing  in  them  !  Can  you  hear 
that?" 

He  was  thrown  on  his  side,  he  was  grappled  with  by 
one  whom  fear  of  death  gave  strength,  his  clutch  was 
eluded  and  Hunt  sprang  free. 

"Nothing  in  them  !  What's  your  murder  fingers  for, 
then?  Nothing  in  them — what  you  say  'Mother' 
for,  then  ?  Nothing  in  them  —  what  —  keep  away  ! 
Keep  off  of  me  ! "  He  whipped  from  his  pocket  what  had 
gleamed  in  his  hand.  "Keep  off  of  me  !  I'll  fire.  By 
God,  I'll  let  you  have  it  if  you  come  at  me  !" 

An'  come  at  him,  an'  come  at  him,  an'  come  at  him,  as 
of  Percival  in  the  fight  the  old  men  say. 

Quick  and  straight  as  he  had  leapt  at  Pinsent,  now 
quick  and  straight  he  leapt  at  Hunt.  Quick  and  straight 
then  to  win  victory,  now  quick  and  straight  in  victory 


ALWAYS  VICTORY  447 

already  gained.  Quick  and  straight  he  leapt ;  quicker 
the  pistol  spoke ;  without  reel  or  stumble  he  pitched  to 
earth. 

There  came  a  scream  of  hideous  sound  from  Hunt, 
and  screaming  still  he  turned  and  fled,  screaming  was 
answered  by  a  shout,  and  screaming  ran  to  the  hold  of 
tall  men  come  out  of  the  night  in  his  pursuit  and  close, 
yet  very  late,  before  he  screamed. 

From  Ima  no  cry  nor  sound.  She  cast  herself  beside 
the  figure  that  lay  there,  looked  in  its  face  and  had  no 
need  for  word  or  question ;  pressed  her  hps  to  his  and 
then  cried  only,  ''Little  master  !  ah,  ah,  Percival !" 

She  threv  herself  full  length  upon  him  where  full  length 
he  lay.  With  her  body  she  shielded  him  from  the  im- 
mense rain,  with  her  arms  enfolded  him,  put  her  mouth 
to  his. 

So  she  lay  scarcely  breathing ;  so  she  held  him  — 
hers,  her  own. 

There  is  a  hill  that  stands  in  a  chain  of  hills  where  the 
west  country  stands  towards  the  sea.  A  river  streams 
below  in  a  great  mouth  that  opens  to  sea  and  a  wide  flood 
that  winds  along  the  vale.  No  more  than  a  wdde  ribbon 
it  looks  from  the  hill,  and  the  sea  no  more  than  the  sky's 
reflection.  Here  on  a  day  the  van  stood,  the  horse 
tethered,  and  Japhra  with  his  pipe  watching  the  remote 
valley.  He  turned  his  eyes  to  Ima,  knew  the  thoughts 
that  had  her,  and  touched  her  where  she  sat  beside  him 
on  the  steps.  All  was  known  to  them  in  these  days  and 
he  spoke  of  it.  "My  daughter,  art  thou  still  question- 
ing it?  Why,  this  was  the  happy  ending  such  as  none 
could  make  it.  How  had  he  endured  to  live  and  over- 
throw his  friend  ?  How  live  in  silence  and  carry  those 
hot  embers  in  his  breast  ?     Nay,  nay,  the  fight  came  to 


448  THE   HAPPY  WARRIOR 

him  —  that  heart  of  ours  —  and  he  took  up  the  prize. 
A  fighter  I  marked  him  when  a  child  he  came  to  us.  A 
fighter  I  knew  him  and  a  winner  alway.  Mark  me  what 
I  told  thee  once  when  he  lay  with  us :  Though  it  be 
death,  always  victory.  My  daughter,  what  more  happi- 
ness is  there?" 


THE    END 


I 


! 


NOVELS    BY    A.    S.    M.     HUTCfflNSON 


William  Ly«n  Phelps  in  the  New  York  Times  says : 

"Hutchinson  has  published  four  novels,  and  I  heartily 
recommend  them  all:  'Once  Aboard  the  Lugger—,'  1908; 
'The  Happy  Warrior,'  1912;  'The  Clean  Heart,'  1914;  'If 
Winter  Comes,'  1921." 

IF  WINTER  COMES 

12mo.    415  pages. 
"'If  Winter  Comes'  is  more  than  a  mere  novel,  it  is  an 
epic  poen.  of  very  great  beauty.     It  will  last  long  after  most 
other  literary  products  of  this  age  have  gone  to  an  obscure 
and  unlamented  grave."  —  Life,  New  York. 

ONCE  ABOARD  THE  LUGGER  — 

12mo.    327  pages. 
"  At  once  serious  in  its  mockery  of  seriousness  and  touched 
with  genuine  sentiment  in  its  sympathy  with  the  emotions  of 
youth     .     .    .     Altogether  it    is    refreshing."  —  Ererytody'i 
Magazine,  New  York. 

THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR 

Frontispiece.  12mo.  448  pages. 
**  .  .  .  His  romance  and  his  humor  are  all  his  own,  and  the 
story  i3  shot  through  and  through  with  a  fleeting  romance  and 
humor  that  is  all  the  more  effective  because  it  is  so  evanescent. 
Few  novels  exist  in  which  the  characters  are  as  viable  as  Mr. 
Hutchinson's. "  —  Boston  Transcript. 

THE  CLEAN  HEART 

Frontispiece.  12mo.  403  pages. 
"  It  will  find  its  way  to  the  heart  of  the  reader  in  short  order. 
It  has  a  strong  human  interest,  a  hero  whose  cause  commands 
appeal,  and  a  most  lovable  heroine.  .  .  Written  in  fine 
dramatic  style  and  with  character  delineation  that  has  a 
charm  all  its  own."  —  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

LITTLE,  BROWN   &  CO.,  Publishers,   BOSTON 


I 


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